


What Dreams May Come

by Banshee1013



Series: Dreams [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angel Wings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bonding, Bottom Dean Winchester, Castiel's Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hunter Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Dean Winchester, Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Quarantine & Chill (Supernatural), Spells & Enchantments, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Wing Kink, Wingfic, Witch Curses, canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24755620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banshee1013/pseuds/Banshee1013
Summary: When a "milk run" case goes seriously South, Dean finds himself alone and attacked by his dreams. A dreamcatcher spell helps keep them at bay while Sam and Bobby try to find a cure. As gratifying as killing monsters usually is, clearing them out of the dreamcatchers day in and day out *isn't*. Dean has given up all hope of a cure - until the day the dreamcatcher traps something wonderful.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Dreams [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826056
Comments: 85
Kudos: 178
Collections: ProfoundBond Exchange: Quarantine & Chill





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaeh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaeh/gifts).



> Written for the PB Exchange: Quarantine and Chill edition, and based off Jaeh's request for "angst with happy ending, h/c, fluff, porn with plot, wingfic" and based off Jaeh's prompt in the [Profound Bond Discord Server](https://https://discord.gg/profoundbond): "A dream was accidentally caught by a dreamcatcher and it manifested in human form."
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> (Photo by Lew Rubens)
> 
>   
> I tried to hit as many of these as I could. I hope you enjoy it, Jaeh, and Happy Exchange! <3 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [wookieefucker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wookieefucker) for last-minute beta services!

“Okay, that’s the last one,” Rufus calls, out of sight around the side of the cabin. Dean nods as he finishes the dreamcatcher spell he’s working on, forgetting Rufus can’t see him either, then shakes his head at himself. “Yeah, all done here.” He steps back to inspect their work as Rufus comes back around to the front of the cabin where Dean is standing. 

“They’re wrapped pretty tight - anything bigger’n a gnat’s ass is gonna trigger ‘em,” Rufus says, slapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezing, then gives a tug to pull Dean around to face him. Dean is surprised to see an unfamiliar look of concern on Rufus’ face. 

“What?”

Rufus shakes his head, and forces the usual vague snarky look on his face. “Nuthin’, man. Hey, you’re gonna be ok - you got about a week’s worth of supplies and gas for the generator should the lights go out. Cell phone’s chargin’, so you keep in touch.” His grin appears a little forced. “I gotta good lead, shouldn’t be much longer now.” 

Dean isn’t sure who Rufus is trying to convince here - himself, or Dean. “I know, it’s cool, man. I’m good.”

Rufus nods, looking over Dean’s shoulder to give another once-over glance at the spells shimmering around the cabin. “OK, right.” His gaze returns to Dean’s, boring into him, the hand on his shoulder tightening.

“Now, listen. Kill _anything_ that gets caught in those nets. Don’t ask questions, and for God’s sake, don’t hesitate. Anything that gets caught in them is not here to play tiddly-winks with you.” Rufus gives him a little shake. “You get me, boy?” 

Dean grunts. “Of course, Rufus. Not a dummy, remember?” 

The memory of some of the things that have come after him before setting up the dreamcatchers are fresh in both their memories, so Dean doesn’t get too annoyed with Rufus’ reminders.

“Okay… okay.” Rufus releases Dean’s shoulder with a sigh, walking back to the porch to collect the bag he had placed there prior to setting up the spells, and slinging it up onto a shoulder. “I’ll let you know as soon as it’s done.” Rufus looks up at the sky, the sun starting to dip below the cabin. “Probably gonna stop in Billings for the night, should be to where I’m goin’ tomorrow afternoon.” Using the arm not holding up the bag, he pulls Dean into a hug, and Dean grunts in surprise. Rufus is _not_ a hugger. 

“You take care, son,” Rufus says, his voice so quiet Dean barely hears it. Releasing him with a final pat, Rufus spins on his heels and heads toward his truck. Pulling open the door, he tosses his bag onto the passenger side seat and climbs in, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Oh yeah,” he shouts as he turns the truck over, “I left you a little somethin’” Waving, he rolls up the window and pulls away from the cabin. 

Dean raises a hand, only dropping it as the truck turns the corner and is lost in the surrounding trees, and sighs as the quiet settles back in. Surveying the area around the cabin and the barely visible flickering of the dreamcatcher spells, he turns and heads back into the cabin. 

At least he should be able to get some rest tonight without worrying about something killing him in his sleep.

As he closes the door behind him and turns to the interior of the cabin, a glint of amber and blue catches the corner of his eye - a beam of light from the setting sun shining through the kitchen window and glancing off a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label, and Dean’s lonely evening is suddenly looking up.

“Oh, hell yes!” Crossing to the cupboard by the kitchen sink, he pulls down a glass and sits at the table with it. Twisting the cap off the bottle and pouring a good two finger’s worth, he swirls the liquid in the glass slowly to aerate it a bit, then takes a sip and sighs at the sweet, smokey flavor. 

Night falls quickly, so Dean brings the glass and the bottle over to the table in front of the couch, setting them down and crossing to the fireplace to get a fire going against the chill of the evening. 

He settles back onto the couch and stares into the fire, the whiskey glowing in the firelight, and his thoughts drift back to three days ago…

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

_It was a milk run, or should have been. Rufus had called Bobby, asking for a little backup on a routine witch-bagging case up in Montana - just someone to watch his back. Sam and Bobby were researching something-or-other, Dean really didn’t care, and jumped at the opportunity to get outta there before they roped him into it as well._

_He met Rufus at the location and they entered the quiet house - but not a single sign of the witch, or anything really. But a globe resting on a table caught his eye, shimmering with a green light…_

What a friggin’ idiot, Dean growls to himself. Fucking rookie move.

_He bent down to get a closer look and just as Rufus yelled for him to get his dumb ass away from it, the light from the globe struck out and smacked him right in the head, knocking him against the wall. Lights out._

_He woke up shortly afterward with Rufus’ bending over him, but Dean felt fine and waved off Rufus’ extended hand with a smirk. Apparently the witch got the jump on them, bailing the area before they got there and setting up that little zinger, which Rufus (after it seemed Dean suffered no lingering effects from - “obvious saved by that hard head of yours”) teased him non-stop over triggering it all the way on the drive back to his nearby cabin. Dean called Bobby and Sam to tell them what happened and that he was going to shack up at the cabin for a couple days to help Rufus pick up the trail again. After suffering more ribbing from them, he hung up, merrily flipping off the phone as he did so, and they hit the sack, Rufus tossing a blanket and pillows at Dean on the couch before retiring to the bedroom._

Dean feels for the knife, still under the folded blanket and pillows on the couch. Good thing he’s paranoid.

_Dean tosses and turns on the couch. In his mind’s eye, he’s fighting off a pack of werewolves while rescuing a couple of campers. They have him and Sammy surrounded, and as one leaps for Sam, Dean intercepts it but is tackled by the other...._

_The next thing Dean knows, the quiet of the night, interrupted only by the slight crackling of the dying coals in the fireplace, is shattered by the sound of snarling before Dean is thrown from the couch and across the room, looking up to see a werewolf growling at him, and then lunging toward him. Dean scrambled under it as it leaped, reaching the couch and the silver knife tucked under the pillow. The were turned, snarling and swiping, the claws connecting with Dean’s upper arm and splitting it open just as Dean plunged the knife into its heart - and watched in disbelief as the were disappeared in a puff of smoke._

_The gashes on his arm were VERY real, though, and Dean cried in pain, dropping the knife to grasp the injured arm. Rufus was at his side, speechless as the blood seeped through Dean’s fingers and onto the floor, looking like black tar in the pale moonlight shining into the kitchen window. Rufus fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom, tossing it to Dean as he headed outside, grabbing the shotgun by the door as he left. He returned a few minutes later just as Dean had finished patching himself up, shaking his head. No sign of werewolves, tracks or anything. Dean explained what happened when he stabbed it and Rufus nodded, having seen the whole thing but not believing it._

Dean absently scratches at the bandage on his upper arm and winces at the sting. Picking up the bottle, he splashes more of the whiskey into his glass and tosses it back. 

_Rufus went back to bed and Dean had laid back down, but sleep eluded him for obvious reasons. He built up the fire and pulled out his laptop instead, searching for reports of other animal attacks in the vicinity and coming up empty. The next morning they called Sam and Bobby, who were just as perplexed as he and Rufus were - and by the end of the day, Dean had almost convinced himself it was all a dream - except for the gashes on his arm. And no leads on the location of the witch, either._

_That night, Dean fell asleep again, passing out long after Rufus had retired, and this time he was awakened by the sound of Sam’s voice, calling for Dean, desperate and pleading. Dean shot up from the couch, trying to pinpoint the location when he is again attacked, falling over the back of the couch as it’s knocked over by the creature now on top of him - in the glow of the firelight, Dean recognized it as a wendigo. It grabbed him by the throat and began to drag him away, but Rufus appeared again, grabbing the end of a burning log and swinging it at the creature, where again it vanished into a puff of smoke. Dean, suddenly released from the wendigo’s grasp, wheezed in choking breaths as Rufus dumped the log back into the fireplace, and winced as Rufus probed the bruises now rising on his neck._

_This time the call to Bobby and Sam was immediate, Bobby surly as hell at being woken up in the middle of the night until Dean explained what had happened, his voice still raspy from the near-choking. Sam immediately guessed the flash of light from the globe must be some kind of “nightmare curse” - causing nightmares to manifest and attack - since Dean seemed to be the only one affected (although Rufus was able to see the manifestations), and began researching. In the meantime, Dean had no desire to see what other nightmare fuel he would have to fend off, downing pots of coffee in an effort to stay awake while the research into the curse and the cure continued._

_In the meantime, Rufus and Dean continued looking for any sign of the witch - since the sure-fire cure for any curse was to ice the witch who cast it - but it was as if the witch had puffed out of existence, much like the manifestations the curse created._

_By the end of the second day, Dean was becoming delirious from lack of sleep. So Rufus stood guard while Dean slept, waking up four hours later somewhat rested but to a very haggard-looking Rufus, who reported having fended off a djinn, a wraith, and a vampire while Dean slept._

_Happily, Sam had found a possible stop-gap while they continued to look for a cure, and/or the witch - a “dreamcatcher” spell that would trap the manifestations brought on by the curse. Dean was willing to try anything at this point, so they gathered the items for the spell, setting up the spell to cover the door of the cabin._

_That night when Dean fell asleep, Rufus keeping watch again just in case the spell didn’t work, Dean dreamed of ghosts - and the dreamcatcher spell did catch a few, but others poured in through the windows and walls, the sound of the shotgun blasting salt rounds into them finally waking Dean and stopping the influx. The ghosts trapped in the dreamcatcher were easily dispatched with an iron rod, which didn’t affect the spell, but two things became obvious after the experiment - they were going to need a lot more dreamcatchers, and they needed to be further away from the house._

Dean pours one more splash of the whiskey into the glass, sipping this one a little slower. When he’s done, he sets the glass on the table, banks the fire, and heads off to the bedroom.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

When Dean wakes up the next morning, he’s instantly aware of two things - the sun is well above the horizon, and he must have been either _very tired_ or _very drunk_ to have slept this long, what with the jangling of the alarms attached to the dreamcatcher spells.

Oh, good. That’s also why he’s still _alive_. 

One of the good things about expensive whiskey - little to no hangover. Even so, coffee first. He can deal with clearing the nets after coffee. 

The first cup savored, along with some pie left over from the night before, Dean takes a deep breath before heading outside to see what the nets have caught - and stills in shock.

From the porch of the cabin, he can only see five of them - and all five are filled with Vampires. He reaches back in through the doorway, grabbing a machete from a hook by the door, and walks around the house to check the rest. Not all were triggered, but it looks as if an entire nest tried to attack him last night. 

Returning to the front of the house, he approaches one of the nets. The vampire within is suspended like a fly in amber, it’s face twisted in… fear? That can’t be right. Dean pokes it with the machete but the blade passes right through both the vampire and the net with no effect, other than causing the vampire to try and writhe away from the blade. Bracing on his back foot, he brings the machete up to swing a heavy blow through the vampire’s neck, and with a shriek its head falls from its body and the vampire disappears, the smoke cloud dissipating in the morning breeze, the shriek ringing in Dean’s ears. 

He remembered back to the werewolf, the wendigo, and the ghosts - silver to the heart, fire, salt rounds and iron.

Even though they’re only manifestations, they still have to be banished the same way as killing their real-life counterparts.

Dean grins and gets to work. 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

“Sam, can you just go check? We should have heard back from him by now.” Dean growls into the phone. 

“You don’t know that, Dean…” Sam starts, and sighs. “It’s not like you called every motel in… where did you say he was going? Billings?”

“Yeah, Billings. But I didn’t have to check every one. You know his system.”

Sam pauses, and Dean can almost hear the shrug. In the distance, he hears Bobby yell, “First motel in the Yellow Pages, under Roger Murtaugh. Idjit.” 

Dean almost chuckles. “What Bobby said. I called that motel and they said they had a Roger Murtaugh check in the night he left, but no one had heard from or seen him since. ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door so they don’t have a reason to go in, and won’t just on the word of some schmuck on the phone.” 

Sam groans. “Fine. Bobby and I’ll head out first thing in the morning.”

The line goes dead as Sam hangs up, and Dean sighs, pouring more of Rufus’ whiskey into his glass. Bottle was half empty already, he’s gotta slow down or he’ll run out way sooner than he would like. Flipping on the TV, he scans the channels looking for something to ease the boredom - and hopefully keep him awake.

It had been two days since Rufus left. Each night the nightmares had gotten worse, and he would wake up to the alarms jangling louder and louder as more of the dreamcatchers were filled.

He’s not sure what’s going to happen if the dreams get even worse and more apparitions come than he has dreamcatchers to hold them. 

TV reception was not the greatest way out here, even with satellite, but he managed to find an old Clint Eastwood film. “Oh, hell yeah.” He pours a little more of the whiskey and settles back on the couch to enjoy.

He wakes up the next morning splayed out on the couch, the sound of alarms jangling, his mouth dry and sticky from the whiskey and throat hoarse from shouting in his sleep. Last night had been a double creature feature - chased by ghouls right into the lair of a den of Djinn. Staggering to the sink, he grabs a glass of water and takes a gulp, swirling and spitting to wash out what he could from the night before. A long drink of the rest and he heads for the door, grabbing his pistol from the kitchen table as he passes and jamming it into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, then the silver knife and jar of lamb’s blood staged by the door. His shoulders slump as he opens the door and heads out to the nets to clear them. 

It never occurred to him that he would ever get tired of killing monsters, but there was a difference in hunting down ones killing other people or threatening his family, and this - helpless, terrified apparitions dangling in the nearly invisible dreamcatchers like flies in a web. His nightmares and the curse had pulled these creatures here and by the note of terror in their screams as Dean killed them, not by their own choice. But he _also_ had no choice. He had to kill them - if he set them free, the curse would compel them to kill him. 

Lips drawn in a tight line, Dean set to the grim work. 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Nearly an hour later, he shuffles back into the cabin, mentally and physically drained, the screams still echoing in his ears. Nearly all the nets had been filled with djinn and ghouls. Thankfully he had enough lamb’s blood to kill the djinn, dipping the silver knife in the jar before stabbing each one, but had to return to the cabin to reload, running out of bullets for the number of ghouls that had been caught. He makes a mental note to load up a couple extra clips before sleeping tonight, and just as quickly forgets as he sees his phone on the kitchen table, flashing with missed notifications. Dropping the weapons and jar on the table, he snatches the phone up and checks the screen.

Three missed calls from Sam. 

He slams his thumb on the redial button and places the phone to his ear, pacing the floor as the phone rings, a dark pit forming in his stomach.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is hushed and tight as he answers, and the pit in Dean’s stomach falls. He already knows what Sam is going to say.

“What was it, Sam… what got him?”

Sam sighs, and his voice is choked when he speaks. “Looks like an okami.” 

“Wait… an okami? In Billings?” Dean falls onto the couch, his head falling into his free hand. 

“Dean, there’s more…” Sam hesitates, putting on the speakerphone and taking a breath before continuing. ”We’re at the coroner’s right now, and they’ve determined he was asleep when he died.” A tickle of an idea begins to churn in Dean’s brain but denial keeps it away until Sam says, “His room was completely undisturbed when the motel manager found him. Seems like your call concerned him enough to make a wellness check and he found Rufus early this morning.” Dean heard Sam’s voice catch, causing his own heart to stutter in his chest. “He… he was torn to shreds, blood all over the bed - but nothing else was touched. No blood trail to the door or any of the windows.” 

“No… no,” Dean’s voice is barely above a whisper as the tickle blooms into dawning revelation. 

“Dean, did you touch Rufus at all before he left?” Sam struggles to keep his voice matter-of-fact, professional.

“He gave me a hug...” A strangled half-laugh sticks in Dean’s throat. “It was weird.” 

A rustle on the other end, and Bobby’s voice comes over the line, strained. “Dean… we think the curse got to Rufus.” Dean barely hears the rest through the buzzing in his ears. “We think the curse is contagious.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal Ideation, setting of bones and wound cleanup.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta for this chapter, [WeAreTheLuckyOnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheLuckyOnes)!

Murky sunlight streams in the bedroom window and Dean wakes up with a grunt, rolling away from the light and covering his eyes with his arm. Distantly, he can hear the dreamcatcher alarms jangling, and while grumbling, pulls the covers over his head.

How long has it been since he’s been stuck here, alone? He’s lost track, the days blending into each other in their similarity.

Wake up to the sound of the dreamcatcher alarms.

Get up. Drink coffee.

Clear the traps.

Shower, the screaming still ringing in his ears.

Watch TV or screw around on the internet or read or _do anything_ to distract him from the screams still ringing in his ears.

Drink himself into oblivion in hopes of driving away the nightmares.

Stagger to the bedroom and pass out in the bed.

Dream of every horror he’s ever faced.

Rinse, repeat.

At least there are the resupply visits from Sam every two weeks to break the monotony. Sam drops off the box of essential items, like food, soap and other sundries, and of course, whiskey and pie (their own food group, Dean tells Sam every time he protests) just outside the line of dreamcatchers, and Dean will have another voice to talk to for a bit before Sam has to leave; to get back, to try to figure out how to break this curse.

Dean misses hugging his brother more than he ever thought he would. Hell, he even misses hugging _Bobby_ at this juncture. 

With a final heavy sigh, Dean pulls himself wearily out of bed to start the routine again.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

He pauses at the door and gathers the courage to open it, to face what he’s expecting to see outside.

Part of the routine was reviewing his dreams over his first cup of coffee so he would know what weapons to arm himself with before heading out to clear the nets. Last night’s feature had starred changelings - and even worse, _child_ changelings. In his left hand he holds a homemade flamethrower, his right hand on the doorknob gripping it hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

With final deep breath, he twists the knob and pulls the door open, steps out onto the porch. 

As expected, all the nets in sight are filled with crying, hissing changelings.

All of them under the age of eight.

Dean turns away, leans his head against the open door frame, his heart thudding in his chest. 

It’s too much. Even if they’re only apparitions, they’re _children_. And in order to clear them, he has to _burn them._

The thought makes the bile rise in his throat. 

His eyes drift to the pistol on the makeshift weapons shelf by the door. It would be all too easy to end this now. One round is all it would take. But the thought sends a shiver through his body and he falls to his knees, eyes closed, the flamethrower hitting the porch with a hollow thud.

 _Please_ , he begs to no one in particular, _please. I need this to stop. I can’t deal with this, not anymore._

After a moment, he reaches up to wipe his suddenly damp cheeks, picks up the flamethrower, and stands. 

He’s got work to do. He turns and steps toward the row of dreamcatchers, lighting the flamethrower.

Afterwards, he spends the rest of the day drinking until he passes out on the couch, and doesn’t move until the morning. 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

The sound of howling alongside the jangling of the alarms startles Dean awake the next morning, the fog of his hangover making him forget for a moment where he is and what that noise could be.

Then it all comes flooding back and he groans, the pounding in his head increasing.

 _Not even being blackout drunk stops them_ , Dean grouses wearily to himself, raising his arm to block the light from hitting his overly sensitive eyes. 

Hellhounds. Last night, he dreamt of hellhounds. Hence the howling outside the door.

Moaning at the pounding in his head as he stands, he shambles over to the coffee pot to make some liquid fortitude.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

A half-hour later, he’s once again standing by the door, this time armed with a demon blade. He shoves the door open and steps out into the light, only slightly squinting.

A couple decades of having to fight monsters after an all-night bender has decreased the time it takes for him to get over a hangover. A cup of coffee and he’s good.

But what he sees when he steps out of the door makes him wonder if he’s still drunk and hallucinating. 

As expected, every net he can see from the door contains a whining, cowering Hellhound, and from the sound of it, several more around the sides and back of the house.

Except for one. The one directly across from the door.

That one holds... a bird. A _very large_ eagle-like bird, black as midnight. It hangs in the dreamcatcher’s net and stares at him with wide eyes, black pupils blown wide and lined with a startling blue, beak open and panting.

Dean tucks the demon blade into his belt and crouches, slowly creeping toward the bird tangled in the dreamcatcher so as to not scare it further; but the bird doesn’t move, those black/blue eyes following him as he approaches. As he gets closer, he thinks he sees why - while both wings are slightly extended, as if caught in the dreamcatcher mid-flight, one is bent at a very unnatural angle. 

As Dean kneels before the net and examines the bent wing, he sees bits of white and dots of red among the ebony feathers - bones, and blood. The bird’s wing was broken, more than likely as it flew into the net. 

“Hey there, buddy, it’s okay. I’m gonna fix you right up,” Dean says softly with what he hopes is a comforting voice, standing and backing away slowly. He doesn’t know much about birds or fixing broken wings, but he _does_ know he’s going to need to immobilize it to prevent it from hurting itself even more. “I’ll be right back, don’t move…” he says, darting into the cabin to search for a big enough towel.

Digging through the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom and finding one that should work, he heads back outside to the bird, crouching again as he draws near. He notices its beak is now closed, its eyes even bluer now that the pupils have shrunk down some. _This is good, seems calmer. Maybe now I won’t lose a finger trying to rescue it._

Dean lays the towel on the ground under the net. Murmuring soothingly, he tries to carefully work the bird out of the net - but the magical lines of force hold it too tightly. Well, no help for it. Speaking a few words in Ojibwe and snapping his fingers, the dreamcatcher dissipates and Dean is just able to get his hands up to brace the broken wing before the bird topples out of the net and on top of him, knocking him down into the dirt.

It’s a _very, very large bird_ , it’s body the length of Dean’s torso, the good right wing extending out at least four feet, the broken left wing segment cradled very carefully in Dean’s right hand. 

To his amazement (and relief) the bird calms further, even on it’s back against Dean’s chest, slowly pulling the good wing in and folding it against its body. Dean wraps his right arm around the folded wing and body as he slowly, gently rolls to his left, placing the bird on the towel while still maintaining a hold on the broken wing segment. With the bird now lying on its stomach, Dean carefully folds the broken wing, wincing when the bird shudders as the protruding bone recedes and the broken pieces come together. When the broken wing is fully folded against its body, Dean wraps the ends of the towel tightly around the bird and tucks them in. 

He pauses to catch his breath, the whining from the other nets reminding him that he has more work to do, along with restoring the missing dreamcatcher - but that can wait. He needs to get the bird inside, figure out how to splint the wing, or if it can even be done. 

Rufus’ departing words ring in his ears - “ _Kill anything that gets caught in those nets. Don’t ask questions, and for God’s sake, don’t hesitate. Anything that gets caught in them is not here to play tiddly-winks with you”_ \- but the bird turns that elegant head and fixes him those blue eyes, uncanny in their intelligence, and Dean can’t bring himself to even contemplate it.

This is no ordinary bird. 

“Okay, buddy. Let’s get you inside and see how to fix you up.” Kneeling down on the uninjured right side, he slowly slides a hand under the towel by the bird’s belly, making sure to cradle the feet as he does so. With a grunt, he hoists the bird up to his chest, wrapping his other arm carefully around the broken wing as he does so.

_Christ, this guy has to weigh at least twenty pounds…_

He manages to stand, and feels the bird trembling in his arms. Heading back inside the cabin, he sets it down on the floor by the fireplace, the embers still glowing and giving off a little heat, and absently strokes the bird’s head as he reaches for his phone on the coffee table, punching at the screen and placing it against his ear.

“Sam? Hey, you’re not going to believe this…”

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

“So from the pictures you sent, he looks a lot like an Asian Black Eagle or a Verreaux’s Eagle, but bigger than a Stellan’s Sea Eagle.” Sam’s voice coming through the speakerphone pauses. “None of which are native to the area, or even close.” 

“Sam…”

“And the blue markings around the eyes… and speaking of, blue eyes? Pretty rare in general and doesn’t occur at all for any of these birds…”

“ _Sam_!”

Sam sputters to a stop. “What? I’m just saying, this is not a known bird!”

Dean sighs, tilts his head back and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Sam, I know this is an unusual bird. It got caught in a magical net designed to catch nightmare apparitions - but it hasn’t tried to kill me like the other things have.” 

He glances over at the bird, still wrapped in the towel but now sitting on a pile of additional towels Dean had set by the fireplace, the embers within rekindled into a flickering fire. The bird’s shivering has stopped, thankfully, but the broken wing is still a problem.

“What I need to know right now is - can its wing be fixed?” 

Dean hears the tapping of keys as Sam presumably looks up how to splint an eagle wing. True, he has a laptop and an internet connection (thankfully, as internet porn is really the only thing keeping him sane up here anymore) and he really could have looked this up himself, but he needed Sam’s reassurance that this wasn’t a lamebrained idea.

Besides, he’s probably gonna need two hands to splint this wing, so having Sam talk him through it will definitely help.

“Okay, here we go. Right… so the first thing you need to do is find where the break is. That’s going to determine if splinting it will even help.” 

Dean takes the phone with him over to the fireplace where the bird lay, the blue eyes calmly following him as he approaches. “Hey buddy, don’t freak out - I gotta take a look at this so we can fix you up, okay?” He gently pulls the end of the towel away from the injured wing and, finding the break in the skin and feathers, takes a picture and sends it to Sam. “Okay, sent you a pic of the break.”

A minute later, Sam replies, “Right, got it. Okay, looks like when you folded the wing it pulled the bone back under the skin. Given the area, it looks like it was either the radius or the ulna.” Sam sighs. “According to this, if just one is broken then the prognosis is good but if both are, it may not heal right.” 

“Well how do I figure that out? It’s not like I have an X-ray machine here,” Dean grumbles.

“You’re going to have to palpate the area. Gently press around the injury to see if you can feel the break.”

Dean winces, his gaze shifting to the bird’s eyes, still so calm and blue. “This is gonna hurt, buddy. I’m so sorry.” He gives what he hopes is a comforting smile, and starts to press around the wound site. The bird shudders under his fingers but its eyes never leave Dean, which he finds somewhat disconcerting.

“I can feel two bones next to each other… the top one feels fine but I can feel a bump in the bottom one…”

“Great, that’s good. Only the ulna is broken, much better prognosis. So, you’re gonna need a splint… hey, you can use a flap from the boxes I bring your supplies in. Cut a piece to the width and length of the bone, and…uh...” Sam takes a breath, then continues, “You’re gonna want to pad the splint with something soft, and the wrap should be soft as well, so…” Dean could hear the hesitation in Sam’s voice. “You could use one of Rufus’ old flannels, cut it into strips and wrap the splint in one and use the rest to bind the splint to the wing, and then the wing to the body.” 

Dean felt his stomach drop at the suggestion, but it made sense. _It’s not like Rufus is going to need 'em anymore_. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. What about the wound itself?”

“Uh… oh, okay, so ugh… this sucks for the poor bird.” Sam says. “You’re going to need to pull out any damaged feathers around the area, then clean it with disinfectant - the first aid kit should have something you can use.” Sam snorted. “Just imagine you’re cleaning a knife cut after doing a spell, same thing, really.”

“Okay, let me gather everything up and I’ll call you back.” Dean hangs up the phone and turns back towards the bird. Without really thinking about it, his hand lifts to the bird’s head, stroking the soft feathers there and softly running down the smooth neck. “Hey, so my little brother says it’s not so bad, you’re gonna be good as new,” he says quietly, stroking the head and neck again, and again. The eagle’s eyes start to slide closed, more and more with each stroke. 

Dean shakes himself out of the reverie, blinking, and stands to gather the necessary items for the splint. 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

“There, how’s that?”

Dean waits as Sam examines the picture he just sent of his work; the wound cleaned, splint in place, and the wing bound to the bird’s body. 

“Looks good… and it looks like he agrees,” Sam laughs. Dean looks at the picture he sent and then glancing over, realizes the bird is completely asleep, head tucked behind the uninjured wing and eyes closed. 

“He? Can you tell if it’s a male?” 

“Oh… no, not really. Since he’s not any recognizable species it’s impossible to really know without a lab procedure.” Dean could hear the shrug in his voice. “It’s just better than calling him an ‘it’, or ‘the bird’ all the time.” 

Dean reviewed the follow-on care for the fracture Sam had sent him. “So, check for swelling or infection, change the bandages on the wound, unwrap the body bindings every 2-3 days to stretch the wing shoulder joint.” Dean pauses. “It’s gonna take 3 weeks for the bone to set?”

“Maybe longer due to his size. Should probably give it a full month just to be on the safe side. After that, you can feel the fracture site and there should be a bump where the break in the bone has healed over and it shouldn’t move.” 

_And then we’ll see if the poor guy can fly again_ , Dean thinks, and smiles at himself for slipping into the pronouns Sam gave the bird. _How embarrassing if he turns out to be a girl. Not like I’m ever going to find out for sure._

The sound of whining and howling drifts in from outside… “Oh shit, the nets. Sam, thanks for all the help but I gotta go!” He hangs up and tosses the phone on the coffee table, wincing when it clatters loudly and glancing over to see if it disturbed the bird, but it - he - slept on.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Dean heads for the door, retrieving the demon blade from the arsenal there, and with a heavy sigh, heads outside to dispatch the hellhounds and restore the missing dreamcatcher. 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Closing the laptop lid with a sharp snap, Dean stretches and yawns, back popping from being in one position too long. A weary glance over to the fireplace shows the fire barely flickering, so he rises and walks to the fireplace to bank the embers to keep them warm for the morning. He turns a worried eye to the bird, still apparently asleep on the makeshift nest - Dean had added a blanket underneath earlier for extra cushion and protection against the chill of the night.

He leans down and rests a hand softly on the sleeping bird’s good side, and breathes out a sigh of relief as his hand rises and falls with the bird’s breaths, feeling his heartbeat slow and steady there. Smiling, he gently strokes the soft flight feathers of his good wing under his hand - and jerks back, startled by the tingling in his palm and the popping blue-white sparks like static electricity. The bird, however, remains motionless.

Shaking his hand to dissipate the feeling, he heads to the bedroom, looking back over his shoulder at the sleeping bird, eyes narrowed.

_Please don’t kill me in my sleep. Rufus will never let me hear the end of it._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many more thanks to my beta , [WeAreTheLuckyOnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheLuckyOnes)!

Dean tosses and turns, and finally falls asleep - and the dreams come, right on cue. Okami this time, growling through sharp, bared teeth, long claws slashing at him as he desperately attempts to fend it off.

When, suddenly, he’s wrapped in an unearthly blue-white light, surrounding him like a shield; and a feeling of warmth and security falls over him. Through the haze, he sees a tendril of the same blue-white lance out and slice through the okami, dissipating it in a cloud of smoke. More come, all destroyed in a similar fashion. The warmth overcomes him, though, and he falls into a dreamless sleep as the tendrils continue to dispatch the incoming okami.

He wakes the next morning to the sound of… birdsong? The rustling of wind in the leaves of the trees outside. 

And it’s full daylight.

And not a single alarm sounding. 

Dean leaps out of bed, throwing on the pair of sweats puddled on the floor and dashing to the front door, throwing it open and stepping outside to the porch.

All dreamcatchers within sight are empty.

He wracks his brain - _I **did** dream last night, right?_ \- and definitely remembers being attacked by okami. The nets should be _full_ of okami. 

And then he remembers the glow surrounding him, the tendrils of light destroying the manifestations before they reached him. The feeling of peace and protection. 

He returns inside in a daze, closing the door behind him and heading to the kitchen to make coffee.

There’s no way his brain is going to be able to wrap around this new situation without a lot of caffeine.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

“Sammy, I’m tellin’ ya - they’re all empty!” 

“And you’re sure you dreamed last night... “

“Yeah, I’m sure!” Dean drops his head to his hand, elbow propped on the table, fingers digging into his hair. 

He’s still not sure exactly how much of that dream he wanted to tell Sam about - he could only imagine what Sam, or worse, _Bobby_ , would say about it. In the light of day, even _he_ was beginning to feel like it was just a little _too crazy_.

He sighed into the phone. “Listen, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s probably just a fluke. Or, maybe the curse is starting to wear off.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right… give it a couple nights and see what happens.” He can tell Sam’s trying to sound reassuring but the questions in his tone remain. 

“So, how’s the bird?”

Dean’s brain snaps at the lightning-quick change of subject, followed by a rapid flush of guilt - he hadn’t thought about the bird all day. He quickly glances up from the table toward the fireplace where the bird still lay, head turned toward the dampened embers in the fireplace.

“He.. he looks fine. Hasn’t moved much but I guess he wouldn’t, would he?” 

Dean stifles a gasp as the bird turns toward him, the blue eyes boring directly into his. The intelligence in those eyes; undeniable. 

An overwhelming feeling of hunger distracts him, followed by a rumble in his stomach.

“Uh, hey Sammy… what should I feed this guy? He’s gotta be hungry by now…”

“Oh yeah, uh… lemme check…” The clatter of keys comes over the line and Dean realizes he probably should have done this himself last night while looking for signs of the witch (and ok, fine, porn). 

“Ok so looks like the standard diet for raptor-type birds - our closest approximation to what he might be - are ‘bats, squirrels, and other small mammals’,” Sam says. 

“What about rabbits, do you think that will work?”

More key smashing - “Yeah, looks like that’s what they’re fed while in recovery.” 

Dean grins. “So, looks like I’m going to be hunting wabbits!” 

A groan comes across the line and Dean’s grin widens. Nothing makes him happier than getting a rise out of his brother, and ridiculous pop culture references do it every time. 

“Anyway… another thing the vet site says you should do is help him exercise… get him up and moving, help him flex his good wing so the joints don’t get stiff.” Sam pauses. “Oh, and also move the bad wing, but just at the shoulder. Don’t take off the splint or move that part. And the bandage over the injury needs to be changed, or removed if it’s no longer bleeding.”

“Yessir, Dr. Winchester. I’ll get right on it.” Dean ends the call, laughing; the sound almost foreign in his ear. It’s been awhile since he’s felt like laughing, and it feels pretty good. 

Gathering the first aid supplies again, he heads over to the fireplace and kneels down next to the bird, whose head turns to him as he approaches.

“Ok, buddy, I’m going to need to check out that bad wing, ok? I’ll go slow, and believe me when I tell you, my fingers are not tasty…” He pauses as the bird meets his gaze once more, and Dean’s stomach rumbles. “Yeah I know… hungry,” he says absently, reaching tentatively for the injured wing and inspecting the bandage there. “Just gonna take this off and check it out first…” He deftly removes the bandage and is pleased to see the skin there has started to knit, no blood or oozing. “Well that looks really good, bud... “ He stops mid-sentence. “Look, I’m gonna have to come up with a nickname for you… can’t keep on calling you “buddy” or “bird”, now can I?” He unconsciously reaches up to stroke his head and the soft feathers there. “Hey, I got it! I’m gonna call you ‘Feathers’!” 

The blue eyes, slit shut at the caress, shot open, and Dean swore the bird… Feathers!.. glared at him.

A bubble of laughter rises in Dean’s chest. “Yep! Definitely ‘Feathers’,” he chortles. With a final stroke down Feathers’ neck, Dean rises and heads for the door, grabbing the pistol from the shelf by the door. 

“Rabbit dinner on it’s way!”

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

The rabbits in the area were plentiful, and in no time Dean had bagged two large ones. On the way back to the cabin, he realizes that the eating process was probably going to be very messy and something that shouldn’t be done in the cabin.

Well, Sammy _did_ say he needed to get some exercise. Perhaps he could coax Feathers outside to eat the rabbits - two birds, one stone. 

Opening the door to the cabin, Dean steps inside to find Feathers is already out of the “nest” and heading for the door, an anticipatory gleam in his eye. Dean moves out of the way as the bird barrels past him out the door, turning to face him on the porch and cocking his head - as much as to say “Ok well? Where is it?”

Dean laughs and tosses a rabbit at him, then winces at the ferocity with which Feathers attacks it. Within a matter of minutes, the rabbit is gone and those blue eyes are focused back on him. 

“Ah, ah!” Dean says, waggling a finger at him. “First, you’re gonna have to get some exercise. Don’t want you to fall into a food coma before we work out those wings.” Dean sets the other rabbit inside the cabin door, and moves to kneel in front of Feathers, who glances at the cabin door, then back at Dean with what can only be described as a resigned look. 

“Don’t worry, this won’t take long, okay?” Dean reaches slowly for the good wing, but doesn’t have to do anything - Feathers extends the wing on his own, and Dean gasps in amazement as the tip brushes the side of the cabin before it’s even half-way extended.

“Hey, we’re gonna have to move this into the yard, I think,” Dean says, bemused as he stood, walking into the yard and turning to face the porch where Feathers still stood. “C’mon out here, where you can extend it more.” 

Feathers didn’t move, his eyes going between Dean and into the distance behind him, then back again, and _shook his head_ , the feathers on top ruffling in agitation.

Dean blinks. _Did he just **shake his head** at me?_ He turns to look behind him… oh, right. The dreamcatchers. Makes sense he would be leery around those. 

“Hey, I get it… but it’s okay, I promise.” He faces the cabin and holds his hands out to his sides. “If you come out and extend this way, you won’t be anywhere near them.” 

Feathers squints skeptically but comes off the porch and stops right in front of the cabin. Slowly, he draws himself to full height and extends his good right wing. 

The smell of ozone fills the air, the light beginning to dim around them - but Dean is too busy being stunned by the sight of Feathers to notice; the single ebony wing stretching nearly to the top corner of the cabin. He begins to notice when he sees blue-white sparks shooting between the iridescent feathers, blue eyes appearing to glow and flash in the dimming light. Tearing his eyes away, he glances up at the sky to see sparse clouds beginning to form, blocking the sun - and then dissipate almost as quickly as Feathers pulled the wing back in. As he did so, he seemed to shrink back into himself, and Dean ran to him as he began to topple over, catching him before he fell onto his injured wing.

“Hey, hey, I gotcha, buddy,” he said, cradling the huge bird against his chest as Feathers’ head collapsed against his shoulder. The tingle Dean felt against his palm the night before danced across his chest and arms but diminished rapidly, and soon all he could feel was Feather’s labored breathing and thudding heartbeat.

Dean stroked the feathers on the ebony back, murmuring softly, and Feathers finally relaxed against him, his breathing and heartbeat returning to normal. 

Dean isn’t sure how long they stayed like that, but it wasn’t until Feathers pulled his head from Dean’s shoulder that Dean realized he was still holding the bird and released him, the feeling of peace and comfort he had been feeling only noticeable as it fell away.

Dean took a deep breath. “Okay, then. How about next time we do that, I just manually move your wing for you? That seemed to take a lot out of you.” Dean is not surprised when Feathers nods, apparently in agreement. _Nope, not crazy at all._

He places a hand on the injured left wing, Feathers turning to look at it before meeting his gaze. “Still need to work this one, but I’ll do it, okay? Nice and slow, promise.” Carefully removing the strip of fabric binding it to Feathers’ body, he braces the splint with one hand and uses the other to move the massive wing up and down at the shoulder joint. Feathers’ eyes go wide, his beak opens as he begins to pant, and Dean stops, moving to massage the muscle at the shoulder. Feather’s eyes slide shut along with the beak, and Dean feels a rumble from the bird’s chest, almost as if he were _purring_. 

Dean has to grin. He’s had a few partners that have commented on his “magic fingers” and it must translate to the animal world as well. With a gentle pat, he lowers his hands and smiles, picking up the strip of fabric and binding the wing back to his body.

“I think that’s enough for our first day, don’t you? How about that rabbit now?”

Dean laughs out loud as Feathers turns and all but runs to the cabin door to grab the rabbit.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Later that evening, Dean sits on the couch, a glass of whiskey by his hand glowing amber in the firelight, the light of the laptop’s screen reflecting off his face. Eyes wide at the contents of the page being displayed.

_Described as a supernatural being, the enormous bird was a symbol of power and strength that protected humans from evil spirits._

Dean blindly reaches for the whiskey glass and downs the rest in a single gulp.

_The Ancient Ones named it “Thunderbird” for the thunderous sound of its powerful wings, the lightning that shot from its eyes and the rain and storms that followed in its wake._

Glancing up at the bird, head tucked under his good wing and peacefully asleep, he found it hard to believe. But it all made sense.

It certainly explained how he became entangled in the dreamcatcher, which an ordinary bird would have flown straight through without even knowing it was there. 

Stifling a huge yawn, Dean closes the laptop and gets up to bank the fire. Grabbing the now-empty whiskey glass, he places it in the sink on his way to the bedroom.

“Fuckin’ _Thunderbird_ …” he says to himself as he falls into the bed.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Sleep comes quickly this time, and for a moment Dean thinks the curse might actually be broken somehow - but no. It’s just tonight’s creature feature is staring Rawheads, who move a bit slower but are much, _much_ harder to kill due to their leathery skin. Electrocution was the only thing that permanently works on them, and in this dream, Dean has nothing to fight them with. 

All he could do is run, and run he did… until he ran right into a wall and could go no further. 

While it was true that the dreamcatchers prevented the apparitions from manifesting and doing actual physical harm, they were perfectly capable of rending him apart in his sleep, over and over again. 

For the monsters that could be killed by “conventional” means, things he usually had on him - silver or demon blade or bullets, he could at least defend himself, killing them over and over - but rawheads are a whole ‘nuther ballgame. Electrocution is the only way to kill ‘em and he’s fresh outta that.

So he does the only thing he can - fight ‘em off until he can’t anymore, be torn apart, and presto-chango, respawn again at the beginning to repeat the whole process, like the world’s worst video game.

_Tomorrow is gonna require an entire gallon of coffee to get through after this_ , he thinks, as he braces against the wall at his back, fists raised.

And once again he’s surrounded by the blue-white glow, and the rawheads are destroyed one by one - but now the tendrils have taken on the more distinctive shape of arms and hands. One is outstretched, lightning bolts flashing and crackling from the palm. The other wraps around him and pulls him close, the cloud swirling around him, solidifying between him and the attacking rawheads, soft but firm. The overwhelming sense of peace and warmth infuses him, and once again he drifts into deep sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again beta'd by the amazing [WeAreTheLuckyOnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheLuckyOnes)!
> 
> A little shorter than previous chapters but big stuff coming! Enjoy!

So Dean’s quaran-rou-tine, as he so cleverly (to him) calls his isolation schedule, decreases by a step (no more clearing out the dreamcatchers) but increases by a few more (rabbit hunting, wing exercises, getting _actual fucking sleep_ along with _cuddles from an amorphous lighting-shooting cloud_ ), and the next few weeks continue in the same vein - to a degree.

Dean had called Sam the day after Feathers’ first wing exercise with his thunderbird theory, and Sam had been beside himself with excitement, wanting to come out immediately to observe for himself, but Dean had managed to convince him it was not a good idea - although he suspected the thunderbird had something to do with the nightmare monsters not manifesting, the fact was the curse was still active and there was no reason to believe it wasn’t still contagious. Besides, Dean insisted, he needed Sam to keep looking for the witch - for whom the trail was unfortunately getting colder and colder by the day. Still, Sam called often, asking for updates or any new observations regarding the thunderbird.

Dean is perfectly happy to share Feathers’ progress with him, but the one thing Dean can not bring himself to discuss with Sam are the dreams.

The dreams in which a glowing, protective cloud guarded him. The cloud that is becoming less and less cloud-shaped.

Each night, more of it coalesced, first shaping into something vaguely human, then becoming more and more detailed; the head and body defining into a male form with tousled hair, full lips, flashing blue eyes, a jawline that could cut glass… 

It was as if whatever this being was, it was forming itself based on Dean’s deepest desires, ones he hadn’t even acknowledged to himself. 

As for Feathers, his strength and confidence continued to grow every day. Dean no longer has to go out to kill rabbits and bring them back, as Feathers now accompanies him on the rabbit hunts. At first, he would wait for Dean to kill one before pouncing on it; to Dean merely flushing them and Feathers hopping and pouncing on them himself, using his good wing to get a little lift. 

For today’s trip, Dean packs himself a lunch, placing it into a backpack along with a couple of beers before slinging it onto his back and heading out, Feathers loping along at his heels. While Feathers feasts on his proudly-caught rabbit (Dean had long gotten over being grossed out by the idea, Feathers being a rather fastidious eater for a bird), he sits on the grass nearby and pulls out the sandwich, munching on it contentedly and watching as Feathers goes after another rabbit. He pulls one of the beers from the pack, uncaps it and takes a long pull from the bottle. Feathers is stalking his third rabbit and Dean couldn’t help but admire how beautiful he was - ebony feathers shining with health, blues and greens and golds reflecting in the sunlight. There had been no more displays of his power since that first time, and Dean had begun to wonder if he had imagined it. Poor Sam would be so disappointed if that were the case.

After Dean finishes his lunch, he sprawls on the grass, tucks his arms behind his head and watches the clouds float lazily across the sky. Sated, Feathers tucks himself next to Dean to nap, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean absently strokes the soft feathers there, and Feathers rumbles his contentment. 

A feeling of peace settles over Dean and he drifts, completely losing track of time. When he comes back to himself, the sun has lowered in the sky significantly. They’re losing the light. 

“Okay buddy, we’ve lounged around long enough. Let’s work those wings.” 

Feathers raises his head from Dean’s shoulder to give him a mournful glare, which Dean meets with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, you know you gotta do it.” The bird gives a grumpy sigh and rises to his feet. 

Dean kneels before him, reaching first for the good wing, lifting the folded wing at the shoulder first, the alula flaring a bit at his touch. He gently massages the muscle over the scapula with one hand while gently raising and lowering the wing at the coracoid with the other. He slides a hand to the metacarpus, the other grasping the wingtip at the terminal phalanx (yeah, he looked up all these terms when trying to figure out how bird wings are supposed to move) and extending the wing to full span - the size of his wing such that Dean has to shuffle to the side a little. He bends the wing back and forth both at the joint between the ulna and humerus a few times, then at the metacarpus. He finishes by flaring the primaries at the tip of the wing to exercise the phalanx joints. 

Through all of this, Feathers stands quietly; eyes slit to half-mast, scapular feathers fluffed and tail twitching. Dean smiles and runs fingers down his primaries, flaring them to check their condition, and a rumbling purr vibrates in Feather’s chest. Satisfied, Dean folds the wing back up and turns to the injured wing.

The site of the break has completely healed over, pin feathers forming where the removed covert feathers used to be. He removes the band bracing the wing to his body and repeats the shoulder exercises, his hand holding the splint in place while raising and lowering the wing, which is all he can do for now. He catches Feathers eyeing the wing and looking back at him expectantly.

“Just one more week, buddy, just to be sure,” Dean said, scratching the fluffed feathers on his head. 

A twinge of sadness clutches at his heart and his hand falls to his side.

One more week and the splint will come off, and one of two things will happen - the wing will have healed improperly and Feathers will be earth-bound, or it will be completely healed and he’ll fly away. And while Dean of course would prefer for the wing to heal so Feathers can fly again - he’s going to really miss his hunting companion. 

Feathers seems to sense Dean’s sadness, moving closer and lowering his head to bump against his hand. 

“Okay, okay...I get the hint.” He shakes off the feeling and forces a grin, fingers ruffling the soft down. Feathers settles to the ground next to him and lays his head on Dean’s shoulder, the rumbling purr in his chest vibrating against Dean’s shoulder.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Dean lay in bed that night and wondered what dreams may come as he drifted off.

Tonight, the last of the cloud solidifies, forming a pair of mighty, glowing wings at the creature’s - his guardian’s - back. And as that evening’s monsters - vetalas this time - began their attack, one of his arms wraps around Dean and pulls him close, the wing on that side wrapping around Dean, the other remaining furled at his guardian’s back. His other hand, brandishing a silver knife, thrusts and twists into each attacking vetala, and they collapse into dust.

As soon as the wing wraps around him, Dean falls under the usual spell, calm and warmth flooding through him, but instead of drifting off to dreamless sleep, every sense is awakened. His arms wrap around his guardian and his body tingles, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end from the contact. He buries his nose in the shining hair and it smells of the night sky after a thunderstorm, like lightning and rain. 

Dean is shocked when his guardian turns his head, lips brushing his cheek, his hand cradling the other. And when his guardian speaks, it rolls like distant thunder, rumbling against his chest and in his ear:

“ _Dean…._ ”

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Feather’s blue eyes are lost in the black of his pupils, pinning in excitement - or perhaps fear, and Dean can relate. 

It had been four weeks since he had awakened to find Feathers trapped in the dreamcatcher, bent and broken. 

Four weeks since he’d last had to face waking up to jangling alarms from the filled traps, and mornings spent clearing them, dispatching monster after endless monster. 

He had no real proof Feathers was responsible for the lack of monsters in the traps - but the coincidence was not lost on him. 

He shook his head to dispel the thought. It didn’t matter - if the monsters came back, he would deal with them. What he couldn’t deal with was the idea that Feathers would be earthbound because of him. 

“You ready for this, buddy?” he asks, dropping to kneel in front of the splinted wing, laying the scissors down by his knee. The bird twitches, crown and back feathers fluffing in anticipation.

Dean starts by untying the strip of flannel holding the wing to the body, then laying a hand on the splint, carefully cuts the flannel bandages binding the splint and gently pulls them from around the wing. “Easy there, buddy,” he says as he lays the scissors down, then places his hand on Feather’s back to steady him as he removes the cardboard splint, laying it next to the bandages. He can feel the bird trembling beneath his hand and gives him a calming stroke. 

“Okay, I’m gonna stretch the wing very slowly.” Running the hand from his back to the shoulder joint of the wing, he places the other at the leading edge of the wing to work the shoulder joint first, then moving down to the phalanx, feeling the break site at the ulna on the way. It’s clean, with just a slight calcium bump at the break site. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he grips the phalanx and slowly extends the wing, standing as he does so, Feather’s eyes never leaving him. 

The wing expands to full length with ease. Dean works it back and forth manually at the ulna joint, the wing action feeling smooth. Nodding in satisfaction, he releases the wing and Feathers folds it up against his body as Dean returns to kneel in front of him. 

He stares into the bird’s blue eyes, reaching up to scratch the feathers on his head, maybe for the last time. 

“It’s time, big guy.” With a final brush of his hand down the bird’s back, he’s shocked (quite literally) by the prickle of static electricity as he does so. Bemused, he stands and steps back. 

Feathers’ eyes follow him, and when Dean nods, he nods back and lifts his wings, raising them to full height and span - and a few things begin to happen.

As his wings reach full extension, blue and white light sparks under the coverts, and shoot down toward the tips of the flight feathers, starting at the tertials and crackling over the secondaries until they’re sparking out at the ends of the primaries. Overhead, clouds gather and lightning flashes between them.

And his eyes - they’re _incandescent_ , flashing and crackling like the lightning in the sky.

Dean sees Feathers begin to gather himself, and with the first powerful downstroke of his mighty wings, the air vibrates with thunder, nearly knocking Dean off his feet. Up-stroke and another thunderous downstroke, and Feathers lifts from the ground. He rises, and his screech of joy shatters the air.

Dean’s heart fights between bursting with joy and breaking from sadness as his friend rises higher… but then, Feathers’ ascent stops. The wings flatten and to Dean’s surprise, he glides down to the ground. 

Upon landing, he draws himself to full height and extends both wings fully again, the sparks dancing and flying across them - and he begins to _change_ , his body growing in height and morphing into humanoid form - a form that Dean has become very familiar with over the past week.

The dark, wild hair. Flashing blue eyes. Incredible jawline. And great, glorious, incandescent black wings.

Dean has enough time to realize it’s his guardian that has materialized in front of him before he crumples, and Dean staggers forward quickly enough to catch him before he hits the ground. 

The same startlingly blue eyes flicker up to meet Dean’s.

“F-Feathers?” Dean stammers, unable to tear his gaze away; or breathe, really.

“Actually,” his voice a weaker, exhausted version of the deep thunderous rumble Dean remembers from his dreams, “my name... is Castiel.”

Then the blue eyes flutter shut and his body goes limp in Dean’s arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The patience and encouragement of my beta [WeAreTheLuckyOnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheLuckyOnes) has hopefully made this a chapter you'll all appreciate!
> 
> This one's on the long side but ends on a fluffy, smutty note!
> 
> Only one more to go (unless the muse runs away with me again)!

Dean leans against the doorway of the bedroom and stares in awe at the man lying in the bed. Or whatever he was, Dean still isn’t quite sure and… Castiel, he said his name was Castiel… had not regained consciousness for him to get clarification on that point. 

Getting him in the bed had been no small feat. He's almost as tall as Dean, and with the wings, probably heavier. The wings themselves had been a challenge - thankfully they had folded on their own when Castiel fell, but getting his arms underneath them and then figuring out how to lay Castiel down with them had been tricky. But he’d managed to get him in the bed without further damage (he hopes).

The fact that he had also been stunningly buck-ass naked had been oh so very distracting. Dean had managed to get him into a pair of his sweats before laying a blanket over him. Didn’t want him catching a cold or anything. Yeah, that’s it. 

Dean’s phone on the coffee table buzzes and he trots over to answer it.

“Hey, Sammy,” he answers quietly so as to not disturb Castiel’s sleep,”...yeah, I took the splint off, the wing looks good… but, you’re not going to believe this…”

Taking a seat on the couch, he recounts the events that transpired - but leaves out the part where he recognized Castiel from his dreams. He still hasn’t figured out how to tell his brother about that without it sounding absolutely insane - and mortifying. 

“I thought you said he was a thunderbird,” Sam asks, and Dean hears him shuffling book pages in the background. 

“Well I thought he was! He wasn’t a dude before!” Still not quite a lie since he didn’t know for sure that Feathers… Castiel... was also the guardian in his dreams until now. “Besides, he did some thunderbird stuff today as well before he turned into a dude!”

Sam makes a small noise of surprise. “So, get this… in some accounts, mythological beings such as chimera, or the thunderbird, have actually been… angels.” 

“Angels?” Dean scoffs. “Angels aren’t real.” 

“I’m afraid we very much are,” the thunderous voice very much quieter but no less deeper came from behind him, startling Dean onto his feet, almost dropping the phone in the process. He spins to face the voice. 

“Oh… hey, you’re up!” he stammers. At the same time, Sam asks, “Who’s that?”

“Hey, Sam, gotta go,” Deans says distractedly, hanging up the phone on Sam’s squawk, and takes a hesitant step toward Castiel, hand outstretched. “Are… are you ok?”

Castiel looks down at himself, running his hands over his very well defined chest, and Dean swallows hard at the gesture. “I appear to be unharmed,” he says, fingering the waistband of the sweats lying just below the “v” of his hips, “but I am unsure as to how I came to be wearing these.” 

“Oh, uh…I put those on you,” he says, face flushing. “I… I was worried you might catch a cold, or… or something.”

Castiel tilts his head, eyes squinting in confusion. “Catch a… cold? I’m quite capable of maintaining a proper body core temperature.” He begins to slump, and Dean rushes to his side, guiding him to the couch which Castiel sinks onto with a grateful sigh, wings flattened against his back and curling over his bare shoulders like a cape. “I apologize, it appears I am still not at full strength.” 

“Is there anything I can get you?” Dean asks, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Water, or something to eat maybe?” “Water would be helpful, I think,” Dean nods and rushes to the kitchen, filling up a glass and returning, sitting on the couch next to Castiel and handing it to him. Castiel takes a long drink from the glass and sighs in appreciation, leaning his head back against the back of the couch and closing his eyes. 

Dean can’t stop staring at him. A snippet of a song runs through his brain - “Get outta my dreams, get into my car.” _Or my couch, in this case_ , his brain unhelpfully adds. But it doesn’t take away from the fact that it’s _true_ \- just last night, in fact, he was wrapped in this guy’s arms in his dreams, and now here he is.

 _And even more gorgeous in reality_.

“I’m sorry I called you “Feathers” this whole time,” Dean blurts, then flushes in embarrassment. _Real slick, dude_ , he chastises himself, but Castiel chuckles, full lips stretched into a toothy grin, bright blue eyes meeting his and flashing in merriment. “It is quite all right… you couldn’t have known my name and I had no way of communicating it.” He rests his head against the back of the couch again, eyes turned toward him. “I rather liked it, actually,” he says softly, “as much as I enjoyed your care and company.” He turns away, and Dean can barely hear him when he says “I regret being too injured to help you.”

Dean hesitantly touches his arm, and Castiel turns back, sorrow etched on his face. “Hey, no… it’s my fault, you got stuck in my net. I’m really sorry you were hurt, and I’m glad I was able to fix you up.” 

Castiel reaches out to brush light fingertips over Dean’s cheek, and Dean leans into it, skin tingling from the contact. “You… “fixed me up” very well, Dean.” His wings flare slightly, blue-white light briefly flickering across them. “My power is contained in my wings, and while one was broken I was unable to effectively use it - you in fact witnessed my one attempt to do so.” 

“Right… when we first did wing exercises and you did your thunderbird thing…”

Castiel nods. “Indeed. And unfortunately, in that form I was unable to cure you.”

“Waitaminute…Cure me?” Dean asks, stunned. “How… do you know about the curse?”

“Of course, that is why I’m here.” Castiel smiles. “I heard your prayer.” 

“My… my prayer?” Dean thinks back but certainly doesn’t recall praying to anyone.

Castiel reaches out to him, pausing when Dean flinches back, startled by the sudden movement.

“May I show you?” 

Dean nods, braces as Castiel places two gentle fingers on his forehead, and gasps as a memory floods his mind.

_Him, on his knees by the door, homemade flamethrower in his hand. Eyeing the pistol on the shelf by the door and shying away from the dark thoughts it brings._

_**Please… please. I need this to stop. I can’t deal with this, not anymore.** _

Castiel pulls the fingers away, leaving behind the sensation of heat, Dean breathless from the memory and the feeling of hopelessness and despair. 

“Your call was like a beacon to me, Dean. I could not ignore it.” 

“But why did you come as a bird? I mean,” Dean gestures at Castiel’s current form, “this would probably have been much more effective.” 

Castiel does a little head-tilt-squinty thing and Dean really finds that beyond adorable.

“I am a celestial wave of intent, Dean. I must assume a physical form to travel upon the Earth, and a humanoid with wings would attract far too much attention.” 

Dean snorts. “And a huge, beautiful bird that brings thunder and lightning is so much less conspicuous!”

Castiel’s head tilt turns into a scowl. “The Thunderbird is my avatar upon the Earth and has been for millennia.”

“Wait, are you saying that all the lore surrounding thunderbirds… that was YOU?”

Castiel shrugs. “I would assume so, if it exists. I am the only one of my Brothers and Sisters who appear on the Earth in that form.” 

Dean is utterly fascinated by this and knows Sam will be as well. “So there are more of you… more angels? And you all take different forms on the Earth?”

“Yes. We try to take forms more natural to the Earth so as to pass amongst you inconspicuously. For instance, my Brother Michael takes the form of a Phoenix, and Gabriel as a Sarimanok.”

Dean shakes his head, laughing. “You guys have an _interesting_ idea of what “inconspicuously” means!” Castiel grins, but Dean also notices the lines of exhaustion creasing his face.

“Hey, we should get you back to bed,” he says, standing and offering a hand to Castiel. “You can take the bed, I’ll just bunk down here on the couch.”

Castiel takes the proffered hand and rises, but shakes his head. “I need to be near you to protect you from your dreams, Dean.” He leans against him, and Dean wraps an arm around his bare waist to support him and guide him toward the bed, flushing from the feel of soft skin under his fingers - but fails to suppress a shiver as a wing wraps around his shoulder.. 

“But, you seemed to do fine when you were a bird,” Dean says, nodding over his shoulder toward the blanket and towels still piled next to the fireplace and hoping Castiel doesn’t notice the small shake in his voice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees the flush pass over Castiel’s face - and he suddenly realizes why, every so often, he would find bird feathers in the bed when he woke up. “Wait… when you were a bird, you _slept with me_?”

Castiel shrugs as Dean reaches the bed and helps him down onto it. “I need to be in contact with you to access your dreams,” he sighs as he lies down, eyes sliding shut. “Specifically, my wings.” 

At _that_ announcement, Dean is all but sure Castiel can hear his heart thundering in his chest. Another memory of the feel of feathers in his fingers as he worked Feathers’... Castiel’s… wings, and the blood in his body begins to rush south. He turns away quickly and heads back to bank the fire for the night. 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

The soft down of Castiel’s covert feathers brush against Dean’s arm and he cannot suppress the shiver this time, as the angel reaches out with a wing to cover him as he lies next to him in the bed. The curve of the great wing covers his shoulder, the long primaries at the wingtip gently lying over his ankles, the alula feathers gently caressing his shoulder.

Dean takes a deep breath to calm the rapid beating of his heart. “What about your… current form?” he asks, voice shaky, waving a hand to indicate the insanely hot figure now lying next to him on the bed. “You seemed to.. I dunno, _develop_ … this form while in my dreams…” he finishes lamely, blushing furiously as memories of those more recent dreams dance behind his eyes. 

The full lips brushing his cheek and whispering his name in his ear the first time after he had fully formed.

The subsequent nights when those lips had found his.

He’s shocked to see a matching flush flare across Castiel’s cheeks. Was he having the same flashbacks? 

“This form… I devised from what I saw of your desires.” The admission comes quietly, so quietly Dean almost doesn’t hear it. 

“But… why?” Dean’s voice is breathless in his ears, both excited and terrified for the answer.

The bright blue eyes turn on him, and Dean isn’t sure if the heat he sees there is his imagination - or maybe a reflection of the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window.

“I felt your soul, Dean Winchester,” he whispers, almost reverently while placing a hand on Dean’s chest and Dean forgets to breathe, “and from the moment I did, I was lost.” A wet pink tongue slips between those full lips, the moisture left behind glistening in the moonlight. “I wanted to be desirous to you.” 

Dean inhales sharply, unable to take his eyes off the motion of the angel’s tongue over those full lips, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s closing the gap between them to crush his own against them. 

When they finally come up for air, Dean breathes against Castiel lips, “I think you nailed it.” 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Dean lies awake under the ebon canopy of feathers and watches the angel sleep, willing the bulge in his boxers to go away (and mostly failing).

Cas, as he’d started calling him in between languorous kisses because “Castiel” is just too much of a mouthful, was still recovering from his transformation, and while neither wanted to stop, the last thing Dean needs is his guardian angel out of commission when the nightmares come.

So he lies there and takes in everything instead.

His dark hair, sleep tousled (apparently, generally tousled) and soft as feather down. Long dark lashes brushing his moonlight-pale cheeks. Lush, slightly chapped lips parted slightly in sleep (and he really needs to make him drink more water). Finely chiseled jaw, the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow darkening the edges (do angels even need to shave?).

His eyes continue moving south, down a chest and abs apparently carved by a Greek sculptor with a knack for visual torture… and is that a _freckle_ above the right nipple? He fights the urge to taste it, to lick the nearby bud until it hardens, and to discover what an angel’s moan sounds like. 

Further south still, and he notices somewhat gleefully that he’s not the only one having to fight the Battle of the Bulge.

He groans with the effort of _not touching_ , and Cas stirs next to him, reaching with arm and wing to pull him closer.

“Sleep, Dean,” he breathes into Dean’s ear, sending a whole herd of shivers thundering down his spine. “I’m ready.”

Dean buries his face in Cas’ shoulder and closes his eyes, lulled to sleep by the smell of ozone and rain.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

The morning dawns bright, and Dean is surprised to wake up wrapped in Cas and wings. 

And without having had a _single nightmare_.

As if on cue (or having direct access to his dreams and sleep cycle), Cas’ bright blue eyes blink open and the corners of his mouth turn up into a small smile. 

“Good morning, Dean.” The deep whisper-soft voice, the delicious lips he had tasted numerous times the night before mere inches away, all combined with the soft alula feathers brushing his cheek makes Dean wonder briefly if he’s still asleep and having the world’s hottest dream. 

The next instant brings those lush lips against his, and he _knows_ he’s not dreaming when Cas’ body presses against his, Cas’ tongue insistent. Dean’s eyes fall shut while his mouth willingly opens for it, sucking it in and swallowing the angel’s moan with it. 

He desperately needs to hear more of _that_.

Cas rolls on top, and Dean gasps as Cas’ hard length rubs against his, through far too many layers of clothing. Dean opens his eyes to see the morning sun blotted out by the angel’s wings spread above him, feathers fluffed; the blue of his eyes lost to the dilation of his pupils.

“I… I want you, Dean,” Cas’ voice breathless and rough, and Dean gasps again when Cas grinds his hips down, slowly dragging his cock along Dean’s. “May I?” 

“G-god, Cas... hell yes!” Dean wastes no time, hands flying to paw at the waistband of Cas’ sweatpants, pushing them down as far as he can reach. Cas rises to his knees to straddle Dean, and he gets another mouthwatering look at Cas as the angel kicks off the sweats and sits back on his heels. Dean reminds himself to breathe. 

Cas is looking down at him, eyes sharp and hooded, and Dean begins to understand what the rabbits Cas hunted must have felt like - prey. The thought makes his dick jump in his boxers.The motion catches Cas’ eye, his head whipping down to follow, and a slow, predatory smile curves his lips. 

Reaching down to brush his hands under the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, Cas _growls_ and Dean gasps as Cas’ hands slide over the bare skin there and scoop under the waistband of his boxer briefs at his back, pulling them down before coming back around to the front to lift them over the top of Dean’s now rock-hard cock and slowly slide them down his legs. Dean kicks them off the rest of the way, and Cas nudges Dean’s legs apart to kneel between them, sitting back on his heels. He runs his hands up Dean’s thighs to his chest and under the shirt, then around to his back to pull him up off the bed and onto Cas’ lap, pulling off the t-shirt and tossing it to the side as he does so. Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ waist and holds on for dear life as Cas’ lips smash into his again, Cas’ hard cock dripping precome and sliding against his in the most delicious way. 

Dean’s hands skate up Cas’ back, finding their way to where his wings emerge from his back, and he digs his fingers into the soft tertiary feathers there. Cas growls against his lips and thrusts his hips against Dean, swallowing his breathy moan. With what little brain he has left that isn’t preoccupied with the sensations flooding his senses, Dean notices the feathers under his fingers feel somewhat oily. A memory surfaces from his research on bird wing anatomy and his fingers go exploring. He finds the small nipple of the oil gland under each wing, gently pinching while stroking outward and is rewarded by warm, slick oil coating his fingers and running into his palms.

At the same time, Cas breaks the kiss, arching his back while a hungry whine gurgles from his throat. 

“Oh, like that, do ya?” Dean breathes against Cas’ neck, milking the glands again. 

_“Deeeeaaaannn…_ ” Cas moans, and that in itself is almost enough to send Dean over the edge, but he fights it down because he has a _great_ idea. 

He spreads the sweet smelling oil over his hand, and reaches in between their bodies to grab both of their cocks, coating them in the oil, and begins to stroke.

With his other hand, he desperately clings to Cas to keep him from toppling over, the angel arching and keening, wings flexing and twitching behind him with each upward slide and twist of his hand. 

Cas’ breathing grows more labored, and suddenly he snaps forward, eyes boring into Dean’s and arms crushing Dean to him. His wings snap to full extension with a crack like thunder, before wrapping around them, enclosing them in darkness, the only light coming from Cas’ glowing eyes. Cas thrusts into Dean’s hand, matching his pace, and Dean knows Cas is close. He feels the edge rushing up to him as well, the heat and pressure flowing down his spine into his abdomen. 

With a shout like lightning sparking across the sky, Cas comes hard and Dean follows right after, their release coating Deans’ hand and the small space between them, their breath coming in gasps as they cling to each other.

Cas’ wings retract and fold behind him with a whisper, and Cas folds over, laying Dean gently down on the bed with a soft kiss before curling against his side. Dean can feel Cas’ heart against his rib cage, thudding in time with his own as they come down from the orgasmic high. 

Soon, Dean hears the sounds of light snoring as the recovering angel falls asleep against him. Reaching over the side of the bed, he fumbles for his t-shirt and uses it to clean them up, then wraps himself around Cas, his nose buried in the soft hair and pressing a kiss there. 

Probably not the _best_ idea to strain Cas’ resources while he’s still recovering… but while still buzzing in the afterglow, Dean finds it hard to be remorseful.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

The sun was decadently high in the sky when Dean woke up again, his first site being those blue eyes again, inches away but this time in a very worried face.

“Dean, I am very sorry, I didn’t mean...,” Cas starts to apologize and Dean stops him with a finger to his li”Ips. 

“You have nothing to apologize for, Cas.”

Cas shakes his head. “But Dean, what I did…”

“Was extremely HOT.” Dean finishes, and is rewarded by the obligatory confused head tilt. Dean has to stop himself from laughing when Cas’ eyes unfocus, and he knows Cas is reviewing the morning’s activities for temperature variances…

“I do not recall my behavior causing any undue temperature increase in the room, and in fact the blood circulation in our bodies being altered by our activities _may_ have actually _decreased_ our core temperature by a minimal amount, easily overshadowed by the exertion…” He stops when Dean begins to laugh, a disgruntled expression creasing his features which just causes Dean to laugh harder. 

“Totally called that one,” he gasps in between fresh bouts of laughter, but brings himself under control as Cas’ concerned expression deepens.

“My behavior was disrespectful. I did not even ask for consent!” 

Cas is truly upset so Dean does not want to dismiss his feelings outright, but also doesn’t want him to beat himself up over it because Dean had been _way on board_ with the whole thing. 

“Cas… you didn’t ask for consent outright, but you _did_ ask permission. We were both caught up in it, so the fault - if you wanna call it that - goes both ways.” This appears to calm Cas down some, and Dean pulls him down to cradle him against his chest. 

“It was just very… possessive of me.” Cas’ voice muffled a little as he burrows his nose in Dean’s neck, his manic hair tickling Dean’s chin. 

“Y’know, I don’t mind so much.” Dean pulls away slightly to meet Cas’ eyes. “I’m feeling a little possessive myself.” Cas sighs happily and burrows back into Dean’s neck. 

Dean smiles up at the ceiling and marvels at the level of contentment he’s feeling at the moment. 

“So, sunshine… what do you want to do today?”

Dean feels Cas’ smile against his neck. “I think I would like to do more of what we just did.” 

Dean laughs but as usual his dick has a mind of its own, twitching at Cas’ husky tone. But he knows his own limits, and _someone_ has to look out for this very impulsive angel.

“Definitely up for that later, sweetheart. But we have to get you healthy first.” He turns onto his side and Cas whines at the lack of contact until Dean palms his cheek, his thumb running over Cas’ bottom lip.

“How ‘bout some burgers? Get some food into that hot bod of yours. Whadda ya say?”

Dean almost forgets that suggestion when Cas sucks his thumb into his mouth and bites gently, but nods as he releases it. 

“Burgers sound good.” 

Dean leans over to give him a thorough kissing, then rests his forehead against Cas’. 

“Burgers it is. But first, coffee.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: NSFW!
> 
> Soooo you may have noticed the number of chapters increased... Chapter 6 was already close to 5K and I just had to break it when I did! So yes, there is a Chapter 7 coming that I hope to have posted sometime tonight (PST).
> 
> Until then, enjoy!
> 
> PS: Sorry, not sorry!

“Cas, are you sure you’re ready?”

Dean considers the angel in his arms and worries, as he does. 

And he admits to himself that Cas’ health is not the only thing he’s worried about. 

Cas says he feels well enough, strong enough, to cure him of the curse. But then what? The same anxieties are plaguing him now as when Cas was Feathers, his hunting buddy and companion - that there were other things that he should be doing, could be doing as soon as he was stronger.

But Dean didn’t want to lose him. 

It was one thing when he was a bird - it’s a whole _different_ thing now that he’s an angel, and Dean supposes Cas should get back to doing… well, angel-y things, like answering prayers and saving people. 

Like he did with Dean.

The responsible person in him knows this is the right thing to do - have Cas cure him, then go back to his job, helping others.

But his heart sings a different song. 

So he’s been putting it off, every day convincing Cas that he should take just _one more day_ to build up his strength, just _one more day_ , and _one more day_.

Cas is perched in his lap on the couch, facing him; Dean’s head on Cas’ shoulder and nuzzling into his neck again, breathing deep. His scent has changed a little as he’s gotten stronger, becoming closer to the smell of the plains after a gully washer; fresh and earthy and grassy. His hands are at Cas’ back and buried in his wings, stroking the soft secondary coverts and trailing down to the smooth, strong secondary flight feathers. He’s careful to avoid the scapulars, where the wings join his body, and the oil glands at the base - that is for another time. For now, he just wants to hold him and commit this feeling to memory before it’s gone forever. 

Cas sighs and purrs contentedly, the wings twitching and fluffing under Dean’s caress, his voice rumbling and vibrating against Dean’s lips and chest when he speaks.

“I’m sure, Dean.” Cas pulls away slightly, and his eyes narrow with concern as he studies Dean’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dean lies - and then he sighs, “I know you need to get back to doing your angel stuff.” His eyes cast downward. “I’m… I’m gonna miss you, man.” 

Cas thumbs Dean’s chin and raises it to meet his gaze, his eyes sorrowful and disbelieving. “You believe I’m going to leave you as soon as I cure you?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Is that why you’ve been hesitating?” 

Dean chokes on the words, so he nods instead and looks away, embarrassed by the single tear rolling down his face. Cas wipes it away without comment, then moves his head down to meet Dean’s gaze again.

“Dean, I have no intention of leaving you.” 

“But…” Dean's voice cracks and he clears his throat before continuing, “what about, I dunno, helping people who pray to you, like I did? Isn’t that your job?”

Cas’ bright smile warms him like a shaft of sunlight. “Yes, among other things… but I can do that just as easily by your side as I can alone.” His hands cup both sides of Dean’s face. “Especially given what you and your brother do. I believe my duty will be more than fulfilled by staying and helping you.” 

The recent hours-long conversation between Sam and Cas a couple of days ago is still fresh in his mind, and Dean can’t help but chuckle at the memory. What Sam had hoped would be an interview and study of Angels for the Men Of Letters records, Cas turned right back on him, changing it into an ' _Interview with the Hunter'_ instead. He guesses that conversation had been the catalyst for his decision.

Well, besides touching Dean’s soul and being lost and all. _That_ memory causes him to flush a little.

He gusts out a breath in relief, his arms tightening around the angel, smiling into his eyes. “Okay, then. How do we do this?” 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

With a whispered spell, Dean steps back as the last dreamcatcher fades. He heads back up to the cabin and stands in the doorway, glancing over to the kitchen where Cas, having raided Rufus’ 'pantry' for the ingredients he’ll need to remove the curse, is currently measuring them into a brass bowl. “Are you sure getting rid of the dreamcatchers is a good idea? What if the spell doesn’t work?”

Cas looks up from his preparations, eyes squinting in exasperation. “Do you not trust me, Dean?” 

“That’s not what... I mean, yeah, of course I trust you…” Dean glances back over his shoulder at the wide-open clearing, and takes a deep breath. 

Cas’ expression softens. “I understand your concern. But I will be right here in case it doesn’t.” 

“But not _with_ me,” Dean pouts. 

Cas frowns and looks down, working over the ingredients in the bowl. “I am disappointed as well - but for it to be a true test of whether the curse has been lifted, I - unfortunately - cannot be touching you.” Nodding with satisfaction at his preparations, he turns and crosses over to the door where Dean stands, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him close to whisper in his ear, “It is only for one night.” 

Dean wraps his arms around the angel and lays his forehead against Cas’. “One night.”

After a moment, Dean pushes away slightly and drops a light kiss to Cas’ lips. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

They stand together at the small round table in the kitchen area, the brass bowl placed between them. 

“Let us begin.” Cas’ voice is a low rumble, the thunderous undertones vibrating the air around them. 

Wings flaring behind him, Cas shrugs a bare shoulder and flicks his wrist, and Dean startles as a gleaming silver blade drops into Cas’ hand, seemingly out of nowhere. 

“Where did…HEY!” Dean squawks as Cas snatches his hand and places it over the bowl, using the blade to slice a neat cut into his palm. Dean’s blood dribbles into the bowl, and with a quick swipe of a suddenly glowing palm, Cas seals the cut before turning the blade to his own. Silver, glowing liquid drips from Cas’ palm into the bowl, mingling with Dean’s, and the ingredients in the bowl begin to sizzle and smoke. Cas flexes his dripping palm, sealing it while whispering in a foreign, halting language; the smoke rising from the bowl begins to glow silver and red, increasing and rising, swirling as if caught in a whirlwind. 

And then Dean’s chest constricts, he doubles over and falls to his knees, unable to speak as he gags and retches; green, oily smoke billowing from his throat. The glowing smoke from the bowl surges out of the bowl and down, enveloping the green, burning it away with a flash where they touch. 

He falls backward and Cas is suddenly there, catching him as the last of the green smoke falls from him and burns away. Cas holds him, murmuring and rocking him as he gasps for air. Dean looks up into those deep blue eyes, flashes of silver shooting through them and then fading away as they narrow, the corners of his full lips pulling down into a frown of concern.

“Dean…?”

Dean raises a shaky hand to drag a thumb over the angel’s frown. “‘m fine, Cas,” he slurs, another fit of coughing wracking his body, Cas clutching him closer as he rides it out and catches his breath after. “Feelin’... better.” 

WIthout a word, Cas picks him up and carries him to the couch, laying him down and propping a pillow under his head. Dean closes his eyes, exhausted, and hears Cas’ quick footsteps head in the direction of the kitchen, then returning and kneeling beside him. Sliding a hand beneath Dean’s head, Cas gently tips him up and Dean feels the cool press of glass against his lips, and opens them to gratefully sip the water within. After a few more sips, Cas lays his head back down and places the glass on the coffee table behind him. Picking Dean up again, Cas lays on the couch himself and pulls Dean on top of him, cradling Dean’s head against his chest.

Dean wraps the arm not pinned against the couch around his angel and falls into a light sleep, lulled by the steady beat of Cas’ heart. 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

The snap of a log crumbling in the fireplace wakes Dean. He’s alone on the couch, and he leans up to see Cas by the fireplace, jabbing at the fire with the iron poker to stir up the embers against the approaching chill of night and laying another log on them. The golden glow of the firelight flickers warm on the skin of his bare shoulders and in the iridescent feathers of his wings, highlighting the blue/green in them with sparks of gold. 

His breath catches at the sight and it must have been audible, as Cas glances over his shoulder, a soft smile on his face and the firelight dancing in his eyes. 

“How long…” Dean's voice rasps, his throat raw, and he reaches for the water glass still on the table and downs it, grimacing.

“Only a couple of hours. How are you feeling?” Cas asks, stepping over to the couch and kneeling beside him again as he lifts a hand to Dean’s head, then down to his throat. A soft glow from his palm and the scratching in Dean’s throat eases. Dean grasps his hand and gently pulls it away as the glow fades, absently stroking Cas’ wrist with his thumb.

“You… you gotta save your strength,” he says quietly, then stronger as his voice returns, “that spell had to take a lot out of you.” 

“Not as much as you would think,” Cas says, his warm smile growing… warmer? Oh. _OH._

The next moment, Dean is pulled into Cas’ lap, Cas’ lips hot against his own, and Dean dives in, tongue tasting the edges of Cas’ lips before being sucked in, and whining at the feel of Cas growing hard against his thigh. His hips thrust involuntarily against Cas’ length, his own erection growing and sliding along Cas’, and Cas growls, sucking in Dean’s bottom lip and biting. 

Dean groans, his hands sliding up Cas’ back to the front edge of his wings, grasping the edge and using them as leverage to grind against Cas even harder. Cas breaks the kiss to gasp and arch at the contact, his hands flying down to grasp Dean’s ass and pull him even closer still. 

The single brain cell still residing in Dean’s upper brain reminds him that night is falling and he needs to prepare, to find out for sure if the curse is broken.

All the others on vacation in his dick scream back and remind him that there are _far too many clothes_ in this equation. 

“Cas…”, Dean groans against Cas’ neck, his lips and tongue tracing down the angel’s neck, his fingers trailing down the scapulars and heading for the oil glands there.

Fast as lightning, Cas’ hands catch Dean’s wrists to pull them around front and hold them fast, blue eyes boring into his. Dean sees the sparks flash in them again and his protest dies in his throat. 

“Dean… we have to… have a conversation about this.” Dean takes some small comfort in Cas’ inability to get that sentence out without a stutter - but he's pinned like a bug on display by those intense blue eyes.

Those eyes now take on a worried look as Cas takes a deep breath, relaxing his grip on Dean's wrists, thumbs tracing circles on the sensitive skin there, goosebumps surging up Dean’s arms.

“Cas… what is it?” Dean asks, a black pit of fear and anguish forming in his stomach. 

Cas has changed his mind. He saw what came out of Dean and he’s repulsed - he doesn’t want him anymore. 

Cas must feel him tense and releases his wrists, hands running up Dean’s arms to wrap around his shoulders and pull him in tight. “Do not fret, Ol Limlal,” he whispers, lips mouthing the shell of Dean’s ear, sending shivers ricocheting down his back. “I wish to speak to you of the Bond.” 

Dean pulls back, searching Cas’ face, and finds no small amount of apprehension there. “A... bond? Sounds serious, Cas.” In typical fashion, he goes for the laugh. “Wait, is this a “no sex before marriage’ thing?” he asks with a flirty grin.

Cas, who’s biggest gift appears to be the inability to recognize a joke, casts his eyes down and _nods_. “In a sense, yes. Although I do not require it, I feel it would ease your concerns.” His eyes rise to meet Dean’s, pleading. “I can sense your fear, Dean. You still believe I will abandon you.” 

Now it’s Dean’s turn to look away. “You have more important stuff to do than hang around with me.” 

Cas grasps his chin and pulls him back to look at him. The sparks are even more noticeable now as he frowns at Dean. “You are the _most important_ thing to me, Dean.” Cas closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, relaxing his grip on Dean’s chin to run the pad of his thumb over his jawline. “I feel I need to prove it to you.” Cas’ eyes open again, and this time they’re as warm as a summer day. “This is why I proposed Bonding with you… so there can be no mistake of my intentions.” The thumb sweeps back and over Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean sucks it in, drawing a lovely gasp from Cas. “Do you wish this, Dean?”

Dean finds himself falling into those eyes, down and down. And he nods. ‘Yes, Cas. Hell yes.” 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

The next few movements are performed in a daze, as Cas scoops his hands under Dean’s thighs and stands, Dean arms flying around Cas’ neck to keep from falling. Cas moves in front of the fireplace and the makeshift “nest” still placed there. He kneels and gently lies Dean back onto the nest and follows him down, covering him with his body, wings curling into a canopy over them. Cas’ eyes never leave his. 

Dean is motionless, transfixed; flying through the blue of Cas’ eyes. 

He starts at Dean’s forehead, pressing a soft kiss there before moving down to kiss each eye, the apple of each cheek, the bolt of his jaw and down his neck. He reaches under the hem of Dean’s shirt, and Dean arches his back and then rises just enough to allow Cas to remove the t-shirt, laying it to the side. He resumes his journey, kissing and biting his way down Dean’s collarbone to his nipple, teasing and biting one before sliding over to the other, and continues to work his way down. 

Dean hears gasping and a needy whine and realizes it’s coming from him. He buries his fingers into Cas’ down-soft hair and pulls slightly, and Cas groans and sucks a kiss into his belly just above his navel, lapping it with his tongue soothingly after. 

Cas reaches the waistband of Dean’s jeans, his tongue laving the patch of soft hair there while his nimble fingers unbutton the fly. Dean, now uncontrollably panting and whining, raises his hips for Cas to pull them down, along with his boxers, and thrusts up higher when Cas sucks a kiss into his inner thigh, mouth moving down to his knee as he works the jeans and boxers off his legs, his hair now brushing the underside of Dean’s impossibly hard dick and making him shudder with _want_.

A breath later and Cas runs the tip of his tongue from the inside of his knee, up his inner thigh and over to the underside of his balls, up the seam and the bottom of his dick, tickling the sensitive area at the base of the head. Beads of precome leak from the slit and Cas licks it up like nectar. Dean groans long and dirty as Cas slides the very tip of his tongue into the slit, and with one smooth motion, takes the entire shaft into his mouth. 

Dean’s hips jerk up involuntarily and with a growl that rumbles in his throat and all up and down Dean’s dick, Cas thrusts his palm against Dean’s hipbone, pinning him down as his mouth rises and falls on his shaft. 

Just as Dean doesn’t think he can take any more, Cas pulls off, and then in another breath, he’s back kneeling in Cas’ lap and Cas is somehow completely naked; and Dean groans as his cock slots in alongside Cas’. 

“Dean,” Cas whispers, his trembling voice throaty and vibrant against Dean’s ear, his hands in Dean’s hair, “it is time for your part.” 

Dean nods, licking his lips, and begins repeating Cas’ actions, his lips brushing Cas’ forehead and moving down, but Cas stops him.

“No, Ol Limlal. My wings.” Cas presses his forehead to Dean’s, and Dean’s mind is filled with images.

He knows what to do. 

Reaching back to the oil glands under Cas’ wings, Dean extracts a healthy amount into each hand and begins to stroke the oil onto his flight feathers, starting with the tertiaries and moving to the secondaries. With each pinch of the gland to extract the oil, each stroke of the oil across a feather, Cas trembles against him, his arms wrapped around Dean and clutching his shoulders hard enough to bruise, his face buried in Dean’s neck. He breathes small whimpers and sighs against Dean’s neck, groaning at the occasional slick slide of his cock against Dean’s as he thrusts. 

Dean’s eyes are closed, his mind filled with images, his body with feelings that aren’t entirely his own. He can feel his fingers tingling from the blue-white sparks that flash under Cas’ feathers - but he can also feel fingers on _his own feathers_ , the electrical current building _his wings_ and flowing down his spine and around to his cock, and _what_? 

_We are together, Ol Limlal. I am here with you, and you are with me._

Cas curves his wings around and up so Dean can reach the final primaries at the wingtips, and after the last primary has been coated in oil, Cas releases one hand from Dean’s shoulder to reach behind him and gather some of the oil into his hand. That hand comes back around to run an oil-slicked finger down Dean’s spine, into his crack and circle around the tight muscle of his hole. A reedy whine breathes past Dean’s lips as he pushes back against Cas’ finger, slipping in a knuckle at a time until it brushes against his prostate, and Dean lets out a shuddering cry from the stimulation. 

Cas slowly strokes, in and out, then adds another finger, and then a third, until Dean is panting and sweaty against him, thrusting down onto Cas’ fingers, and then back up against his cock.

In one swift movement, Cas’ fingers are gone and Dean is down on his back in the nest. Cas looms over him, his wings extended and glistening with oil, blue-white light playing around and in between the feathers. As Cas kneels between Dean’s legs, grasping his knees and pulling Dean to him, Cas’ wings snap down and around to shelter them, Cas’ eyes incandescent in the darkness. 

Dean reaches behind Cas to the oil glands, gathering up a handful. He grasps Cas’ cock with the oiled hand, stroking it to coat it fully, then guiding the tip to his waiting hole. With a trembling sigh like the wind over the prairie, Cas slides slowly into Dean. 

“Ahhh… oh, god… Cas… yes, Cas,” Dean babbles, wrapping his thighs around Cas’ hips and digging his heels into his ass to pull him in harder, faster. Cas moves inside him and Dean feels like he’s chained to a lightning bolt, the sensations like electrical current burning across every nerve; Cas’ lips kissing and biting fire on his skin. 

_Cas… I’m...I’m gonna… I’m so close, baby…_

With a muffled shout against Cas’ shoulder, Dean comes hard, painting his and Cas’ bellies white with his release, mingling with the oil and sweat there. Cas groans, his thrusts stuttering and becoming faster, and with an eagle’s screech that rattles the windows, Cas joins him, filling Dean.

Dean cries out as crackling energy flows through his body, burning through it from the inside out, but it’s not unpleasant - far from it. It’s like ecstasy on tap, running through his veins and absorbing into his skin and bones and muscles. 

He vaguely feels Cas pull out, his wings folding against his back as he moves to lay next to him, Cas pulling him into his arms. All he can see are stars and sky and the moon shining on the prairie grass.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

When Dean comes to, he’s lying in the bed, cleaned up and dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants. Cas is lying next to him, propped up on an elbow, his expression serene. The hand not braced against his chin strokes through Dean’s hair, blue eyes bright but back to normal.

Or, “normal” for an elemental force of nature, anyway. 

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry… I guess I kinda zoned out on you there.”

An indulgent smile replaces the calm expression, as Cas’ hand moves down from Dean’s hair to cup his face, and Cas leans down to press that smile against Dean’s lips. Dean feels the fire under his skin erupt again at the contact and brings a hand up to twist in Cas’ hair, holding him there while Dean explores Cas’ mouth with his tongue. 

After far too short of a time for Dean, they break for air; and Dean realizes something. “Hey, I can’t hear you in my head anymore.” The realization makes him sad and a little empty, like a piece of him has been removed. 

His face must convey some of that sadness to Cas, because he quickly picks up Dean’s hand and presses a kiss to the knuckles. “The full mental connection only occurs while the Bond is being formed.” 

Dean sighs sadly and turns away. “I miss you already.”

A warm hand pulls his face gently back to look into Cas’ eyes. “I’m still there with you. Close your eyes and concentrate. Feel the connection.” 

Dean does, and notices something new - a warmth, and a small pull against his spirit, as though it were attached to something with a rubber band. He opens his eyes and smiles happily, then pulls Cas down for another deep kiss.

Cas finally breaks away, placing a finger over Dean’s lips as he attempts to move back in for more, and purses his lips at Dean’s whine.

“Rest now, Ol Limlal. The Bond takes a toll.” 

Feeling the weight of gravity and contented exhaustion begin to take him, Dean nods and relaxes back into the pillow. But he stirs one final time.

“What’s that… is that a… a name or something you’re calling me?”

Even in the dark, Dean can see the flush color Cas’ cheeks. “‘Ol Limlal’”, he says softly, running his hand one more time through Dean’s hair. “It means, “my treasure’.” 

With a final brush of lips against his forehead, Dean drifts off.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

His sleep is deep and dreamless, and when he wakes, the sun is high in the sky and the birds are singing.

But something is wrong. He feels it immediately.

A coldness in the pit of his stomach. The feeling of being pulled thin.

Leaping from the bed, he runs into the living room.

The fire is out, the ashes cold.

And Cas is nowhere to be found.

“Cas! _CAS!!_ ”

Dean runs to the cabin door, running outside into the bright sunlight. And then drops to his knees to pick up the handful of tattered ebony flight feathers he finds there. 

He clutches them to his chest, his body wracked with sobs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! This is it, the last chapter! Thank you all so much for your patience!
> 
> So many MANY thanks to my Beta Extraordinaire [WeAreTheLuckyOnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheLuckyOnes). I honestly couldn't have finished this without her!  
> Please do yourself a favor and go read her stuff!
> 
> FInally, if you enjoyed this and love all things Destiel, come join me at the funnest, most supportive place on Discord, the [Profound Bond Discord Server](http://discord.profoundbond.net/)!
> 
> ... and now, with no further ado - THE CONCLUSION of "What Dreams May Come"!

“Dean, slow down. What do you mean, Cas is gone?” 

Dean paces the floor of the cabin, agitated, the phone pressed to his ear. The frustration and fear drives his other hand into his hair to twist and pull. “What do you _think_ I mean, Sam? HE’S. GONE.”

There's a crackle over the phone as Sam shifts uncomfortably from the outburst and Dean feels a brief twinge of guilt, but the gnawing pit of ice in his stomach doesn’t let him care for long. 

Sam clears his throat and Dean knows what’s coming - the ‘Rational Sammy’ voice. “Okay, he’s gone, I get it. But...he lifted the curse, right?” 

“Yeah, he fixed me. So?” Dean snaps, eyes squinting in suspicion.

“Well… I hate to say it but… he did what he came for. Maybe he had another prayer come in or something…”

“You’re not _**listening to me**_ , Sam!” Dean barks angrily, reason barely winning the fight against the urge to hurl the phone into the fire. “He didn’t leave of his own free will, _I know this for a fact_.”

Sam heaves a frustrated sigh. “How could you _possibly_ know that, Dean?”

Dean, exhausted and heartsick, plops onto the couch. His head falls into his free hand, and he feels the wetness on his cheeks, angrily wiping it away.

“Guess it’s time I catch you up.”

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

For the next hour or so, Dean lays it all out.

Okay, not _all_ of it. There are some things his brother will _never_ find out, at least not from him.

But enough for Sam to understand that there is no way on God’s green earth that Cas would have left - not willingly, at least.

The memory of finding the broken flight feathers - still shimmering from the wing oil - chokes Dean’s breath and threatens to overcome his tenuous hold on his sanity.

“Dean… I’m so sorry.” 

Sam’s voice is soft and consoling, acknowledging his brother’s misery if not fully understanding it. But Dean knows Sam’s gonna do what he does best - work the case. 

He’s counting on Sam staying rational when there’s no way he can himself.

“So, let’s look at options.” 

_There’s my boy_ , Dean thinks absently.

“The first time he showed was when you prayed to him, right?” Dean nods, forgetting Sam can’t see him, but it doesn’t matter as Sam keeps going, “Have you tried praying to him again?”

Dean slams a hand over the mouthpiece and stifles a sob. _Pull yourself together, Winchester_. He clears his throat and removes his hand. “First thing I did,” he replies, his voice gruff and choked. 

The crinkle of flipping pages followed by the sharp snap of the book being slammed closed accompanied by Sam’s heavy sigh. Dean pictures Sam in the Library, head bowed and fingers twisted in his hair in frustration, and feels a surge of warmth for his little brother - and a small twinge of regret.

“Hey, Sam…,” Dean takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, head hanging. “I’m sorry, man. I know you’re trying, and I really appreciate it.” 

Sam huffs out a breath - frustration, confirmed, and Dean gets it. “There’s just not a whole lot of lore on angels, y’know?” He pauses suddenly, hums as an idea comes to him.

“So, this bond… you said you can feel it? Like a rubber band?”

Dean’s fingers involuntarily dig into his chest, where the feeling of tightness, of being stretched too thin resides. “Yeah” 

He hears shuffling and the sound of a chair pushing back as Sam rises, the clatter of something metallic - Sam’s laptop - and the chair scooting back in.

“Maybe I can use that. Let me do some digging and get back to you.” Sam says, abruptly ending the call.

Dean sighs and snaps the phone shut. His eyes fall on the feathers lying on the coffee table, and he chokes back another sob. 

Rising to his feet and stalking to the kitchen, he grabs a glass and the bottle of whiskey. Slamming both on the kitchen table, he makes it his mission to get completely fucking wasted.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

A week goes by. 

Then two. 

The tightness in Dean’s chest grows, the thread - the Bond - attaching him to Cas, pulled so tightly, he’s not sure how he’s still breathing. 

But he has one consolation - as long as he can still feel the small flame of warmth; and the tightness, the pull - wherever Cas is, Dean knows he’s still alive.

Most days, that’s the only thing that keeps him going. 

Sam finds nothing on the Bond. They call Bobby, who after being caught up, calls him a damned fool for getting caught up in all this “angel business”, then does what any good foster father does: gets over it and digs in.

He calls every contact, follows every lead. He sends a few Dean’s way, just to keep him occupied - and to keep him from falling completely into the bottle. 

They learn some stuff, at least. 

For instance: not all angels cavort about the earth in the form of mythical beings and form themselves as they please - only Seraphs and Archangels can do that. Your rank-and-file angels have to take a “vessel” - some poor sap has to agree to let a cosmic being ride around in their meatsuit. 

( _“Except for Cherubs - y’know, Cupids and the like - the exception to the rule,” Bobby explains to Dean. “They can materialize as needed to sow the seeds of love or what-have-you.”_

 _Dean snorts. “As what, fat babies in diapers?” and grins at Bobby’s answering snicker._ )

Another thing - only one thing can hurt an occupied vessel - an angel blade.

Dean glances over to the weapons shelf by the door, where the shining angel blade lies. 

Cas had left it there after the spell, in case it hadn’t worked and he needed to defend Dean - or if for some reason he couldn’t and Dean had to defend himself. 

Dean chokes back another sob as he realizes Cas might still be here if he’d stashed the blade back wherever he kept it hidden before. If it had been on him instead of all the way by the door.

“Where can we find one of these angels?” Dean asks Bobby during one of his ‘check-ins’ (or ‘Has Dean Drank Himself To Death Yet’). “Maybe we can catch one and…” Speaking of drinking, Dean pours another splash of whiskey in his glass and throws it back. ‘Y’know. Question it.”

“You mean, torture it, right?” Bobby grunts, his displeasure clear - but Dean is far from caring anymore.

After weeks of research and investigation, it was becoming more and more clear that it was angels themselves that had taken Cas. Dean would love to find out if this were true, and if he had to poke a few to get answers (or beat the fuck out of them), he had no problems with it.

And if he couldn’t get answers, he would be just as glad to make them _**pay**_ for Cas instead. 

“Yeah, if necessary.”

Bobby’s grumble turns into a snarl. “This is a bad path yer goin’ down, boy.” 

Dean hears his own harsh laughter in his ears and doesn’t recognize it. “You don’t _get it_ , Bobby.” Another splash of whiskey, another burn down his throat as he slams it back. Anything to dull the pain.

“It fucking _hurts_ , Bobby. It’s _agony_!” Dean lurches unsteadily to his feet and hurls the glass against the fireplace, shattering it, the shards falling to the hearth like the pieces of his shattered heart. 

“I know, son… and I’m sorry.” Bobby sighs. “Look, I’ll see what I can find. Just… take it easy. Alright, Dean?”

Dean stares blankly at the shards of glass glittering in the firelight, and hangs up the phone without a word.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

“What are you doing here, Sam?”

Dean blinks up from his prone position on the couch, Sammy standing at the end of it with his arms folded, classic Samuel Winchester Bitchface deployed for maximum effect.

Unfortunately for Sam, the effects of The Bitchface have minimal effect on Dean anymore. 

“I’m here to get you outta here, Dean.”

Dean sighs and wraps an arm over his eyes. Maybe if he blocks Sam from his sight, he’ll go away.

“Not gonna happen, Sam. I have to be here when Cas comes back.”

He hears Sam approach the couch, feels his legs lifted and the weight shift on the cushions as Sam sits and lays Dean’s legs back down. A sigh drifts from Sam’s side of the couch.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but… he may _never_ come back.” 

Dueling feelings of anger and fear claw at Dean’s stomach. As usual, anger wins, and he kicks his legs off Sam’s lap, swinging them around to sit at the edge of the couch, and reaches for the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. 

Sam, being the lanky gargantuan bitch he is, manages to snatch the bottle away before Dean can grab it. 

And yeah, his hand-to-eye coordination may not be all that great right now, either. 

He sinks his head down into his hands. “Don’t be a bitch, Sam.”

The weight shifts again as Sam rises with the whiskey bottle, his footsteps heading to the kitchen, the loud clink of the bottle being set down on the counter. The tap turns on, and soon after, the splash of water pouring into a glass.

Sam’s footsteps approach the couch, and Dean feels the cold glass pressed against his arm. 

“I’m just tryin’ to look out for you, man.” 

Dean shrugs and accepts the glass. He takes a sip, staring into the fire and pointedly not at Sam. “I’m fine.”

Sam snorts, and Dean scowls.

“Dean, the _last thing_ I expect is for you to be _fine_ right now!” He feels the gentle pressure of Sam’s hand on his shoulder and briefly considers shrugging it off in annoyance - but he’s just _so damned tired_. It’s just not worth the effort. 

“I can’t go, Sam,” he sighs, immediately embarrassed at how broken his voice sounds - but again, he doesn’t have the energy to care. “He’s gonna come back… he has to come back.” 

He doesn’t fight it when Sam’s hand on his shoulder tightens and gently pulls him around into a hug. “I know, Dean… but we have to get you outta here.” Sam pulls back slightly, keeping his hands on Dean’s shoulders to steady him, but his face falls at whatever he sees on Dean’s. “You’re falling apart here, and you’re not doing Cas - or yourself - any good by staying here alone.” Sam’s face brightens. “Hey, the Bond - he should be able to find you with it, shouldn’t he?” 

Dean shrugs lifelessly. “I suppose so?” 

Sam’s hands on his shoulders squeeze and shake him a little, jarring him from his apathy. “Then he should be able to find you wherever - including the Bunker!” 

Dean can’t deny Sam’s logic, but the fear still claws at him. “What about the warding… or being underground…”

“You said you could hear each other’s thoughts, feel what each other were feeling, right?” Dean nods again, quickly looking down so Sam can’t see the blush setting fire to his cheeks at the memory.

“That sounds like a pretty profound bond to me,” Sam’s smile is warm, encouraging. “I bet he could find you in a lead box.” 

Dean nods, starting to feel a little lighter at the prospect. Better than sitting here, being useless. “Maybe there’s something you missed in that giant pile of books.” 

Sam laughs out loud. “That’s the spirit.” He rises and turns to look down at Dean, nodding toward the cabin door. “Whadda say? Let’s go home.”

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Two more weeks pass, with no indication of Cas’ whereabouts. 

Dean feels like a ghost these days - wandering aimlessly through the Bunker. The tightness in his chest, the pull on his spirit, making him feel less substantial by the day. Sam has hidden all the liquor, so there’s no respite for him that way, either. 

In the meantime, Dean has pored through every book in the library, and is now in the storage room (slash dungeon) to rifle through the boxes and boxes of files there.

He sits at the long table and stares unseeing at the stacks of files all around him. He’s not really sure when he slept last - he’s been doing his best to avoid it. Every time he’s tried, he sees Cas.

...Cas smiling, the flash of teeth as he laughed.

...Cas’ eyes smoldering under the dark canopy of wings.

...Cas’ face, serene and beautiful as he slept.

But eventually the lack of sleep takes its toll and Dean nods off, face down on a stack of folders. 

Then his eyes fly open; gasping, he grabs his chest. The _pull_ there that has been getting tighter and tighter _vibrates_ , like a plucked guitar string, and he tumbles to the floor with a hoarse shout.

Sam bursts into the room seconds later, rushing to his side. “DEAN! Dean, what happened?” 

“I… I dunno!” Dean gasps, still clutching his chest as Sam pulls him to his feet. “Felt something… a vibration…” 

The bunker is suddenly plunged into darkness, then bathed in dark red light a second later, the alarm klaxons blaring in their ears. 

Dean meets Sam’s shocked gaze, and the brothers turn, running from the storage room. They race down the hall and through the kitchen, past the library and down into the map room - just in time to see the door at the top of the stairs swing open with a loud squeal. A tall figure walks through, silhouetted in the dim red light. 

Sam and Dean simultaneously raise their pistols, taking aim as the figure pauses on the landing and turns toward them. As the door swings shut with a loud clang, the lights flicker back on, the alarms go silent, and the man standing there comes into view.

He’s wearing a tan trench coat over the top of a midnight blue suit, black dress shoes, and a cerulean blue tie the color of his eyes laying over a white dress shirt. 

But Dean knew exactly who he was the second he saw the dark tousled hair, and those blue, blue eyes, even with the bruise-dark circles under them.

“Oh my God,” he gasps, staggering forward to drop the pistol on the map table, grasping the edge of it. “Cas?” 

Cas’ mouth turns up into a tired, wan smile. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Cas’ eyes roll up and he falls to the ground.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

“Cas… Cas, wake up…” Dean pleads, cradling Cas against his chest and rocking him back and forth on the landing. 

As he strokes back the dark hair from Cas’ forehead and presses a kiss there, he notices something else - the tightness in his chest, the thin, stretched pull against his soul - it’s gone. The cold emptiness replaced by the warmth he felt in the cabin, the thread connecting them - their Bond - strong and vibrant. 

Cas’ eyes flutter open, and with a sigh of relief, Dean kisses him, soft and hesitant. 

As he starts to pull away, Cas’ hand clenches the front of Dean’s shirt, the other at the back of his head, fingers curling his hair, and pulls him back down for a deep, bruising kiss. Dean groans against Cas’ lips, his tears of joy and relief wetting both their cheeks. Cas breaks the kiss and smiles warmly up at him, thumb swiping away the dampness from Dean’s cheeks.

“Heya, sweetheart,” Dean chokes out, grabbing Cas’ hand to press kisses against the knuckles. 

“Uh… guys?” Sam’s questioning voice echoing from the map room below. 

“Just a minute, Sam.” Dean wipes the dampness of his tears from Cas’ face. “Are you ok? Can you stand?” 

Cas nods. Dean stands and helps him up onto unsteady feet, wrapping an arm around Cas’ waist. He pulls an arm around his shoulder to help Cas down the stairs and into a chair in front of the map table. Dean takes the chair next to him; grasping his hand, squeezing it, never wanting to let go ever again.

He’s still not entirely convinced he’s not dreaming, drooling onto the stack of folders in the storage room. 

“Uh… so, you must be Castiel,” Sam says, thrusting a hand toward Cas and startling the hell out of Dean, who had completely forgotten his brother was there.

“And you must be Sam,” Cas says, warm but weary, raising his free hand to grasp Sam’s. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” 

“Likewise!” Sam pumps Cas’ arm excitedly, and Dean lays a hand on Sam’s arm to calm him down. Sam releases Cas’ hand and clears his throat self-consciously. “Hey, is there anything I can get you? Water, coffee, tea…”

“Water will be fine, Sam. Thank you,” Sam turns on a heel and swiftly heads to the kitchen. Dean scoots his chair closer, leans forward and takes Cas’ other hand in his own. 

“Are you really here? I’m not imagining this, right?” 

Cas stands and slides into Dean’s chair, straddling his lap; his long fingers wrapping around the nape of Dean’s neck and the soft hair curling there, the other cupping his cheek before crushing his lips against Dean’s, tongue flicking against his lips until Dean sucks it in with a soft, needy moan. 

Cas breaks the kiss and pulls back slightly to stare into Dean’s eyes, the silver sparks flashing through them. “Does this feel like you’re imagining things?” Cas whispers, his voice husky and raw. 

Dean shakes his head imperceptibly, speechless, drowning in his clear blue eyes. 

With a smile and another soft kiss, Cas slides off Dean’s lap and returns to his chair, just as Sam returns with a glass of water and two beers. He sets the water in front of Cas with a shy smile, and one of the beers in front of Dean before taking the seat across the map table from them.

Dean stares at the beer, then glances accusingly up at Sam. “You said we were out of beer!” he grumbles.

Sam chuckles, throwing his feet up on the map table and taking a long pull from the bottle. “Well, as far as you were concerned, we were.” He shrugs at Dean’s scowl. “Dude, you were in a bad way. Had to sober you up.” 

If he’s being honest, Dean really couldn’t argue. He picks up the bottle and takes a drink, savoring it with a sigh of satisfaction, and taking the opportunity to finally get a good look at Cas. 

He looks okay, for the most part - a little thinner (but that could be the outfit, and where the hell did that come from?), the bags under his eyes could be from lack of sleep or God only knows what… and Dean almost drops the beer when the realization finally hits him…

Where are Cas’ wings? 

“Cas… what… what happened to you?” 

Cas takes a long drink of water and sets the glass down on the table, his eyes downcast.

“My Brothers came while you were asleep. It appears they had been trying for some time, but the dreamcatchers prevented them from approaching.” Cas shakes his head ruefully. “It appears your apprehension regarding their dismantling was warranted, but not for the reasons that concerned you.” His eyes dropped away again. “ They captured me and took me back to Heaven for judgment.” 

“Judgement?” Dean said angrily, leaning forward in his chair. “What the hell for?” 

Cas’ smile was soft and sad. “For becoming too involved with my charge - you,” he said, eyes glancing back up to meet Dean’s. “I was tasked with answering your prayer and leaving - I was not supposed to fall in love with you.” The smile turned into a feral grin. “They were certainly not very pleased when they discovered I had Bonded with you.” 

Dean felt his blood beginning to boil, and reached over to palm Cas’ cheek and run a thumb gently over one of the dark circles under his eye. “Cas… did they hurt you?” his voice shaking with growing fury.

Cas reached up to take his hand, brushing a kiss across the knuckles and holding it tight. His eyes unfocused again, as if trying to distance himself from the memory.

“They considered it blasphemy, Dean - Bonding with a human.” Cas takes a deep breath and continues in a hushed voice. “They tried to break it, Dean. They tried for _years_ to break it.” 

His bruised eyes are fierce when they refocus back on Dean’s, his other hand reaching to clasp the back of Dean’s neck and pull him near, pressing their foreheads together. “But they couldn’t break it, Dean. Our Bond is too strong,” Cas’ deep, gravely voice barely above a whisper.

“Damned right it is.” Dean tilts his head and kisses Cas ferociously. But then he breaks the kiss, remembering what Cas said... “Wait… you said _years_?” he says, stunned. “Cas, you were only gone for about a month!”

Cas nods somberly. “Time proceeds at a different rate in Heaven than it does on Earth. Days to weeks. Months to Years” 

Dean chokes on a breath, dismayed. “No, Cas… Oh, God, I’m so, so sorry…”

Sam clears his throat, and both Cas and Dean glance over to him, having completely forgotten he was there. Dean didn’t even notice his brother had taken his feet off the table and was leaning forward onto it in rapt attention. “So… they let you go?” 

Cas’ laugh is sharp and brittle. “I am sure they are telling themselves that is what they did, yes. But in actuality, once they realized the Bond could not be broken without killing the both of us, they had no choice. It is an even greater blasphemy to destroy life in order to break a Bond.” He gives Sam a sunny smile and says, “So instead, I gave them… “an out”, I believe the saying goes. I explained that, considering your pursuits to protect people from the supernatural, that working with the both of you would still be fulfilling my calling.”

Dean asks the question that has been on his mind since he first noticed it, his voice strained and stomach in knots.

Softly, afraid of hearing the answer, “Cas… did they… did they take your wings?” 

Cas tilts his head, eyes squinting in confusion and oh _man_ Dean missed that! 

“No, I have just… hidden them, I suppose. They are still here but exist on a different plane of reality.” 

Dean’s face must have expressed his sadness at this news, as Cas laughs and leans forward to lightly kiss his cheek. “Do not worry, Ol Limlal. I can call them back for your pleasure… and mine… whenever we desire.” 

Sam coughs in discomfort and embarrassment, and Dean laughs, a full on gut-busting laugh and it _feels so good_. 

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

They move to the kitchen, Dean's stomach grumbling and declaring his hunger, and he decides to make burgers, much to Cas’ hearty agreement. Dean knows they are, in Cas’ limited experience, his favorite, after all, and Dean looks forward to introducing Cas to other things, like bacon… and PIE. Oh, Cas is gonna _love_ pie, Dean feels it in his heart. 

While the burgers are sizzling on the grill, he watches his brother and his angel sitting at the table, Sam gesticulating wildly and Cas laughing and it makes his heart sing. The belt of Cas’ trench coat draws his attention, swaying as Cas laughs at another of Sam’s tales and Dean suddenly realizes where he’s seen that outfit before.

“Hey, Cas,” he calls from behind the kitchen island. Cas swivels in his seat to face him, his eyes bright and his smile fond and warm and just for him. 

“Yes, Dean?” 

Dean waves a hand, encompassing Cas’ outfit. “The trench coat, the suit - by the way, your tie is on backward, I can help you fix that later,” he stops to force down a chuckle. “Did you dress like ‘Columbo’ on purpose or is this how incognito angels dress these days?” 

Cas’ smile grows even softer. “You are correct, I created this disguise based on the ‘Columbo’ character. I watched the show with you in the cabin and you seemed to be quite impressed with his skills of reasoning and deduction, so I thought it would be a good disguise to use while accompanying you and Sam on your missions.” 

Cas’ smile changes to bafflement when Sam and Dean burst into laughter. 

While Dean finishes grilling the burgers and plates them, Sam fetches some more beer from the refrigerator, including one for Cas. Dean brings the burgers to the table, setting them in front of Sam and Cas before sitting down with his own, sliding onto the bench seat next to Cas. He waits before starting on his, enjoying the sight of Cas enjoying a burger again; the practically pornographic noises he makes, his eyes closed in apparent ecstasy as he savors it. 

It gives him _ideas_. He raises a hand to brush through Cas’ hair, still as down-soft as he remembered, and Cas turns to give him a soft smile - his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, full of hamburger. 

“Well, if the suit fits, wear it, I guess.” Dean laughs. “You do kinda look like Columbo right now, except way hotter.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam roll his eyes, but the accompanying smile on his face was fond and happy. His eyes meet Dean’s, and he gives him a barely perceptible nod of approval, and raises his bottle, angling the neck toward Dean. 

Dean grins and raises his own, tapping it against Sam’s but holding it there as he turns to Cas. 

“Get yours in here too, sweetheart.” 

Cas finishes swallowing his current mouthful of hamburger and raises his bottle, tapping it lightly against the other two with a sharp clink, his eyes darting between Sam and Dean, his expression curious. 

Dean winks at his brother, and turns to his angel, his smile so big it almost hurts. 

“Welcome home, Cas.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and that's all, folks! XOXOXO
> 
> (except maybe for a timestamp or two...)
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for joining me on this little journey - my first foray into the serialized posting of a fic. While the experience was exhilarating, if I have learned anything, it's this - NEVER AGAIN will I do DAILY UPDATES :D The only way I got through this was through the patience and willingness of my beta and the fact that I had 3/4 of it already written before I started! 
> 
> Thanks also to the support of my friends and fellow writers over at the [Profound Bond Discord Server](http://discord.profoundbond.net/) \- you won't find a more supportive bunch of people anywhere else. 
> 
> And lastly, thanks most of all to Jaeh for providing this prompt (almost a year old!). I had SO MUCH fun with it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!   
> If you love all things Destiel, come join me at the funnest, most supportive place on Discord, the [Profound Bond Discord Server](http://discord.profoundbond.net/)!


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